I'll Take You Home
by DestinyShiva
Summary: 'Struggling was meaningless. He was beyond saving, divine intervention or not. He was already violated: ruined, spoilt, impure... but he still begged.' FrUK/USUK love triangle. Contains Rape and dark themes.
1. Bomb In A Birdcage

**WARNING: Severe, hardcore non-con. Contains graphic scenes of a sexual nature, angst, violence, and blood…**

**Pairings: USUK and FrUK.**

**Disclaimer: I suppose I should do one of these… Hetalia is in no way mine, nor are any of the characters used in the following. Also; France will appear severely out of character at first, and this is for good reason. You'll understand why this is eventually - so don't be put off by his behaviour.**

**It's not for the faint hearted… so have fun!**

* * *

I'll Take You Home

Chapter 1: Bomb In A Birdcage

_There is nothing more upsetting than goodbyes; hearing the last final words of a person, knowing that deep within the hidden depths of your heart, you will ever see again as long as you both live on this earth. Sometimes, it seems that your last words to someone are something so trivial that you do not realize the pain that could be caused by just a small pitiful statement in the future. Coupling with moments like a sorrowful sudden passing from this world, there are times where you never realize that a single word is your last to that person; your love or assumption that they will one day return, soon or otherwise, drives you from the inevitable truth that you are just about to lose them forever._

_So what is more devastating? Speaking to someone with such trivial words that have utterly no meaning, only to find themselves to disappear entirely from your life without keeping a single thread not severed – or to know that they are going to leave, your mind echoing your memories together wishfully before they are even gone, and you are driven through the painstaking experience of having to say goodbye to them with the most unsteady of hearts? It is a question that I have pondered for a very long time, and yet… it is one that I could never find the answer to._

_I've experienced them both, I have lost everything that kept my soul connected to the world without disregard; everyone who has ever struck my heart with such resonating passion that it hurts me to even consider the lack of harmony that my mortality is clinging onto like a mere parasite without. Why did they, the only people who I loan the knowledge of the feelings of my entire being, wove my thread into the weave of this world with their own two hands – nurturing me when my thread became ever frayed – just disappear? Just like that._

_Gone…_

_Now that they are no longer here, then how am I truly living? How is the world that I never wished to become entangled inside still suspending the derelict fabric of my essence, without their soft and kindly hands holding me intact? How could I really say… goodbye… when either my chest was collapsing within me, or when I had no idea that your sands of time were running out one little bead of sand at a time?_

_There are several questions that echo throughout my mind without any hope of being answered, or at least by mortality that binds me to the lack of true knowledge and interpretation that eludes my mind so stubbornly. Which, as I found myself querying so many times repeatedly, is more devastating – the loss of a loved one through a shock that cripples me till my body becomes as immobile as a statue commemorating the end of a tragedy, or the loss of a loved one through knowledge that they will be eradicated completely from everything I ever knew… the gap that is gouged from the capacity of my heart left to never be replaced for as long as I am able to hold up my own head and whisper forgiveness to the air – is only the simplest of the questions that entraps me._

_The most important question of them all is…_

_Why…?_

_Why, when you all knew I was suffering so in your absence, begging the heavens for forgiveness and redemption, wishing beyond my soul that you could be revived from your carnal remains and return to me… did you both leave me behind, to fade to nothingness but black, intoxicated by the ferocity of my own nightmares without your steadily calming hand?_

_Why, am I the one who is to be alone… wandering constantly in the dark without the hope to see a single millimetre in front of me?_

_Why, is the light that you both removed from my world mocking me so harshly?_

_Why, did I ever have to fall in love, only to reawaken to a world devoid of any solitude for my lonely heart?_

_Why… did it have to be you?_

* * *

"Oh God… Please…" The tears were already falling quickly from his emerald green eyes, each individual salty droplet straying off on its on defiant path away from the rest, living in solitude. Every individual tear stray away by their own will, or rejected from the rest – forced to walk a path attributed to them and them alone.

It was inevitable that another would soon walk in its footsteps. It was an accursed fate and a pointless existence. Tears granted no comfort. They would end, fall to the ground and disperse, without having any use. They accomplished nothing. They were absolutely meaningless.

Yet he still cried.

"Please don't do this to me…!" He begged; his voice turning husky from the screams shredding his throat apart. His throat was incredibly raw; vocal chords torn and stretched beyond any possible limits. The pain, a constant shrill ache burning away at his flesh, made him almost choke and gag. His body was trying to force him to lurch forwards and empty his bowels, prompted by the inordinate sensation tickling, stabbing, and ripping at his oesophagus. But he couldn't move. Paralyzed, frozen, immobilised… so he continued to shriek and whimper.

"You can't do this! You bloody ca-" He was suddenly silenced. A piece of cloth was yanked between his lips and jammed itself forcibly just behind his teeth, his head was shoved forwards and he felt his neck muscles groan in protest. The gag was tied aggressively behind his head; unruly blond locks getting torn and trapped in the immovable knot. He tried desperately to shake his head out of the cloth's entangling grasp, and gnawed strongly on the fabric shoved in his mouth. It was no use. He tried to speak; the shrill tone remained in nothing more than an inconceivable muffled murmur. He fell quiet, whimpering a little as he sobbed – pointless, cursed tears continuing to fall down his furiously scarlet cheeks.

_Please. Anything… anything but this…!_

He forced his eyes closed. He didn't want to see. He was too scared. He would feel every single second viciously… but if he couldn't see it, he could still pretend that it didn't exist. That none of this existed. It was just a dream – a nightmare. He would wake up. He would be able to nurse away his horrific sickening nerves, fears, screams. He squeezed them shut so tightly that all the little spots, dancing colours of light variations and little imprints, had been compressed away and discarded in favour of total darkness. The black was comforting… it was like nothingness - non-existence - death.

He kept trying to deny the truth - the truth that he was not sleeping. It was an impossible lie. No dream had caused him so much discomfort and pain. It was all a lie. He couldn't run. He couldn't reawaken in comfort. He couldn't hide. This was his fate.

A hand was holding his two wrists together over his head, dominating him completely. Nails were digging into his skin compellingly. He wouldn't have been surprised if they had pierced his husky shell of flesh, soaking blood onto the mattress. His own nails were digging into the very centre of his hands; squeezing hard whenever everything became too unbearable for him to take – and by that logic, his nails constantly stabbing himself by now. His body was drained of all strength; there was nothing he could do against the opponent's vigour. He was bound. Ropes ripping his wrists to shreds, tied so tightly that he couldn't feel any blood pumping to his hands, burning each cell until his arms were raw – all scratched and red. He had struggled so hard that his arms bled, but now… there was no point. He was vulnerable – helpless and pitiful. Rendered demeaning to the highest degree; whatever was left of his pride had shrivelled away. A once proud life, reduced to nothing.

_Please…_

Another hand, not belonging to him, was clutching a knife. He felt the metal touch the bottom of his chin; cold tang of the blade biting ever so threateningly over his exposed throat. If he didn't comply, they would kill him. No cautions for the weak. He whimpered underneath the gag, weeping to himself and still refusing to open his eyes.

The knife lowered, and he shivered as his captor ran the side down his neck and to his shoulders, every cold touch making him long desperately to wince and shrug it away. But he still couldn't move. He was weak, useless, and hopeless. Nobody could save him. Death or torment was his only choices; he was forced to endure.

…_Don't do this to me…!_

He felt a tug in the fabric of his clothes as the knife ripped his shirt into two; blade dipping into his skin and ruining his chest as his constrictions, defence, comfort, were rendered useless. He felt his heart beat rise stubbornly, oscillating violently as he begun to lose even more blood. His head was dizzying him with a migraine that refused to dissipate. The knife was balanced on his chest as his opponent tore the shirt free of the victim, ripping the fabric into shreds and discarding it to the ground. The knife was picked up again. Seconds later, his belt had been sliced into two fragments and slipped around his waist, trousers dragged free of his legs, and boxers also removed. He was reduced to nothingness, stripped bare of all defences. He cried harder, moaning uncomfortably into the gag.

He didn't want this.

Not this. Not to him. Not with _him_.

He kept his eyes scrunched up tightly. He heard the knife hit the floor, clanging metal tapping repeatedly before it settled; every single little noise burst in his ears like a bullet. He gasped as that hand grabbed him roughly, stroking his vital regions hard and painfully, trying to force him into arousal. Cheeks flushed red as the fingers swirled over his dignity, running a cold finger down the underside and forcing a horrid shiver to spasm through his spine and make the hairs on his neck stand up on end. The talon-like hand keeping his bound arms away released, though the sensation of a little more freedom gave him absolutely no relief.

He felt his skin crawl as the enemy lowered his head, expelling hot breath all across his vital regions. His head kicked back involuntarily in pleasure; betraying every fibre of his own existence. It was wrong – so very, insanely wrong. The cheeks continued to burn red in blinding anger, directed at the other… but also mainly his own self. His own body was betraying him; erecting itself and preparing for the pleasure of impossible reproduction. He hated it. He hated that his body was detached so far from his emotions of pure fear, panic, distraught, and so many other synonyms that described the sheer discomfort and horror of what was happening. The hand wrapping his length slowed and parted, leaving him cold and lonely without the harsh grip. More tears fled him. The migraine continued to wipe out his senses one by one.

_Someone… Anyone…!_

The opponent engulfed him. It was pointless to struggle, but he tried to anyway – willing all of the remainder of his strength to fight back. But it was not enough. His attempts were quenched easily as hands seized his hips suddenly, forcing his legs apart. It was too far beyond hope. He screeched and whined under the fabric; body convulsing with both distress and gratification. A tongue flicked and caressed his tip, before swirling down and enveloping him… one excruciating inch at a time. His body burned with uncontrollable heat. It was utter torture. They deliberately forced him to endure for as long as possible. What did he ever do to deserve it? Why…?

Why was it all happening to him?

They forced him deep into their throat; sucking, licking, torturing, and forcing him to groan loudly and powerlessly without any signs of mercy. He squirmed under their grasp, trying to yank his hips away from the arousing warmth of the other's mouth and skilled tongue. They slammed him down, ruthlessly compressing him until he stilled. He drowned in the tears and gagging words of objection riding in his throat. Their teeth dug into his stimulated flesh, nipping violently away at him as punishment for his attempted resistance. He screamed into the cloth gag, flinching strongly, as they withdrew and begun to lap up the droplets of blood trickling down his length. The residues of pre-cum, blood, and saliva ran uncomfortably down his crotch, making him writhe even harder.

…_Help… p-please…_

The enemy removed his gag. He screamed louder than he knew was physically possible to expel from a human's lungs. Not that he was human. Neither of them was. And that was why it was so horrible. His body would always heal, recover from the scars he was receiving and discard the pain… but his mind would be tainted forever, for thousands of years. No comfort. There would never be any hope for his sanity. He was broken from the very second that he was ripped away from what he knew of reality.

"Please…! D-Don't… don't do this… stop…" He gasped, loathing how breathless he sounded. He didn't need to open his eyes to know what they reaction would be. It was too late for the both of them. "I'll do bloody anything! Anything but this! PLEASE! D-d-don't! Think about what you're doing! Please!" He frantically lamented in distress.

They didn't care. They shoved him into position, ignoring his grousing pleas – telling them that he would forgive them if they stopped (a total lie, and obviously so) – and dragging his legs even further apart after he tried to curl up and protect himself. They nursed their hands roughly all across his body, absorbing the touch of every single nonchalant angle. He winced, shaking horrifically with unhappy expectation, when he heard them administering lubricant to their own arousal. They didn't even bother preparing him to ease away whatever pain would be caused. He was prised apart without warning. Their member teased his entrance for barely a second before they begun to ease inside.

"Ahnnn! Oh God…! Stop! STOP!" He choked, suffocating as his windpipe condensed and chest tightened – panic setting in so strongly that it was horrifically hard to even breathe. His chest rocketed up and down and he wheezed for breath, shrieking in agony at every opportunity. His inner walls were being torn, stretched too far beyond his capabilities – a harsh consequence of no preparation. The other moaned in delight, enjoying the warmth and delectable tightness constricting around them as they pushed inside their victim. The agony was too much for him to bear.

"H-help! Someone…! Please, someone help me! A-A-Ah..! Oh God, I'm begging you. Please… stop! HELP!" He shouted with an insanely shrill tone, hoping that someone – anyone – would hear his pleas for help. That too was pointless. If there was anyone, they would have come as soon as the first scream escaped his lips. There was no point begging to God neither. He was beyond saving, divine intervention or not. He was already violated; ruined, spoilt, impure.

"I'll do anything! Anything! Just not this! Anything but this!"

They withdrew, sparking a small twinge of hope in his heart – before ramming back inside harshly and making his chest explode with crumbled resolve and anger. The pain and embarrassment was so immense that everything was flashing white. His migraine continued, leaving him weak willed and light headed as they thrust inside and out in quick succession; bucking him repeatedly down into the mattress, slamming hips together and fingers grasping so tightly that his bones were getting crushed underneath the full blown force of their wrath and weight. His back arched and he groaned in excruciation. They fucked him senseless, pounding themselves in and out, in and out, in and out repeatedly with no foreseeable end. Blood marking the violent rape was sputtering on the mattress. Spots fluttered in the back of his eyes as his prostate was jabbed again and again.

"FUCK! F-F-fuck…" He yelled, sipping the air between thrusts to try condensing the excruciation. He bucked his hips along with the enemy's lead; doing anything to reduce the bite. They changed their pace and angle, deliberately distilling as much physical pain to him as possible. His cheeks flushed the most violent red he could have imagined to curse a man's body. He moaned repeatedly, unable to contain the horrific pleasure his body was forcing out of the experience while his mind was splitting in half.

The other factor moaned and laughed. He never wanted to throttle another person so much. They were spoiling him, ruining him in every single sense, and they still harboured the indecency to laugh. It was so wholehearted a laugh - devoid of guilt. The grievous torment, pain beyond his wildest imaginative fears and humiliation gripping him entirely, continued for what seemed to be an eternity. Finally the peak was reached, at least five minutes later. They came inside his body, riding out their orgasm till the absolute end – milking it for all that it was worth. He thrashed angrily under their body as the sticky fluid filled him; his tears had not stopped for a single second throughout the whole excruciating ordeal. They grasped his member roughly again, jerking him off until finally they nursed him through an orgasm of his own. He shrieked and panted as he came, hating himself even more every second. Spent. Breathing was too hard. The other finally withdrew, spilling blood and semen from inside of him onto the mattress.

He never knew so much pain. Both emotionally and physically. He was ridden through the highest degree of torment. He gasped, wheezing for as much air he could force into his small lungs. He finally opened his eyes; snapping them up to look pitifully towards his captor.

"…How could… you… do this to me? I thought we were friends… I thought you…" He couldn't bring himself to say another word. It was too much. They laughed, and leaned over to his ear.

_Don't say it's my fault…!_

"This is all your fault, slut. You seduced me with that pitiful anger and blush of yours. You brought this on yourself." Hot breath spread over his ear and ruthlessly embraced his cheek and neck; each word stabbing into him with more force that hurling daggers.

"N-no…" He whimpered.

"Clean yourself up, you look disgraceful. It breaks my heart seeing you like this." They left his side, still laughing sadistically as they sailed over to the doorway; leaving his victim absolutely helpless – naked, bloody, and spent – still shackled by his wrists with the constricting vines of rope… no strength whatsoever to help himself. And they both knew it. It was too cruel.

"…Y-you bastard…"

"I'll be leaving. Oh, and Arthur… if you mention this to anyone. I'll kill him. And then I'll come for you again. And again. Your body belongs to me. Don't you dare forget that. Did I make myself clear, _mon cher_?"

"…F-Fuck you! Fuck you and your damned country, you French twat! I hate you! You hear me? I hate you! I hate you Francis! Are you listening to me? Stay the hell away from him! Don't you fucking _dare_ touch him! YOU HEAR ME? STAY AWAY FROM ALFRED!" He screamed out, lungs shredding into a million pieces. He choked, lurching forwards and spitting blood enveloping him from inside his lungs.

"Whether I touch Alfred or not is up to you, _Arthur_. If you don't want him to come to harm, then you don't say a word. It's that simple. You're mine, mon amour. All mine. I'll gladly come back and prove to you that again and again if needs be." The Frenchman smirked. Blackmail was a threat that the Brit responded to immensely. For his ex-colony's life, he would curse himself to secrecy without a single word uttering him from his lips. It didn't matter that he was raped. Alfred's life was more important than anything to him. Because he loved him. He endured because of him.

"I…" He whispered.

_France… why did it have to be you…?_

"Goodnight Arthur." Francis said darkly, flicking the light switch off and leaving the Brit engulfed in black – cold, alone, and worthless.

_I loved you once…_

_So why… did you have to leave me?_

_How did this happen?_

* * *

_Two hours previously…_

What is this…?

What the heck was going on? Arthur's head spun as he tried to remember something, anything, from before his vision had been compromised. When Arthur had awoken, he found a velvet blackness obscuring his sight completely; the feeling of silk brushing lightly at his cheeks. After a few minutes of breathing slowly, trying to calm his pounding heart…

Francis.

Francis did this.

He remembered reading a book, a usual occurrence for him and nothing surprising at all. He had read that particular volume so many times that he couldn't possibly count, and he was concentrating particularly hard not to crinkle the pages (he could not stand wrinkles in the beloved print of a book, and tears made him particular livid). Not that he really needed to be careful regardless; in the event of a misfortunate casualty, he always had a spare in his library. Just in case. He loved the beautiful body of literacy that much.

But yes, he was reading his book for the nine billionth time (possible under-exaggeration there, he wouldn't have been surprised); totally engrossed. When suddenly, that ignorant looming idiot of a frog swooped down from practically nowhere and smiled smugly at him... just before his vision was quickly stolen by silky fabric he saw held a millisecond before in Francis's hands. Of course… he tried desperately to shout and throw insults at the Frenchman, but he found immediately that half of his body was no longer responding to his brain.

"Ahh, Angleterre. That was too easy." He could still hear the Frenchman's words echo detestably in his ear, and imagine the smug face increasing to a painfully radiant smile. The image fogged his brain gave him barely any time to register, before the same sluggishness ceasing the rest of his body swarmed his mind… and he passed out.

He was drugged. That much was obvious, and his still lethargic thoughts and movements foretold that the effects were still not entirely quenched. Arthur murmured, trying to test whether his vocal chords were working to full effect again yet – though regrettably hardly any word escaped him, apart from a small whimper. Else, he would have been screaming bloody murder at whatever the hell was in front of him. A soft chuckle made it through the material which was partially covering his ears as well; hot breath spreading down his neck and making him shudder.

"Are you awake, mon cher?" Hearing the Frenchman's voice made Arthur wince, tugging aggressively at the ropes which bound his hands together. He finally began to realise the extent of his situation. He tried frantically to move, but his body was hampered by the lasting effects of the drugs. It was no use. He was just as a pitiful victim entangled formidably within a spider's silky web. Francis chucked again at England's attempted plight, and climbed on top of him; pushing his arms down and pinning him at the waist. He hummed happily to himself, liberating his hand inside of the Englishman's clothes – smoothly groping, stroking, and feeling the curvature of his torso to his hip; ignoring the Brit's frantic flailing and silent protests.

"...The...fuck...bastard..." And with that half garbled sentence Francis snapped and yanked Arthur's head back, clutching his unruly blond locks between his fingers, and ripping the blindfold off, causing Arthur to blink as the light burned his retinas which had become used to being engulfed in darkness.

Francis grinned down at the exasperated Englishman; his face illuminated by the ghostly looming ceiling light cascading only himself and Arthur within light - leaving the rest of the room as something to be desired. Arthur fought against Francis's grasp, tearing his hair away from the Frenchman's touch. His face was cursed with an agitated pout, sending daggers straight into the Frenchman's throat with his venomous emerald green eyes glaring. The realisation that there was nothing else he could do dawned on him. Francis sighed, and ran a long nimble finger across Arthur's cheek.

"Mm, mon cher, I love how you look when you're angry. It drives me crazy."

Arthur tried desperately to tear his head out of the Frenchman's reach, to no avail. His movements were beginning to become a little bit sharper, but it was no use - the ropes that bound him mercilessly to the wooden bane of the chair were far too tight for him to squirm out. He tried to struggle anyway, wincing as his wrists rubbed and scalded with rope burn. Francis continued to smile, and ran his finger underneath Arthur's chin; roughly turning his glance to the sky. When Arthur opened his mouth to object, the Frenchman's lips seized him strongly; forcing his tongue immediately inside to dominate his captive love. The Brit struggled, trying desperately to jerk his head back and away from the invasion – to no avail. The drugs gave him no strength to bite down or cause any sort of harm. He was forced to endure until the Frenchman withdrew to sip the air to regain his breath.

"Arthur… I'm sure you've realised by now that struggling is useless. Those drugs won't wear off for another two hours or so. I can have my way with you easily. You belong to me. Every, single, inch." The Frenchman dipped his head, licking the Englishman's neck – biting and nibbling at every exposed millimetre. "I'm going to violate you."

"Ah…Ah-agh… G-Get off me! Like hell do I belong to you! Let go of me Francis! Stop!"

"Never."

* * *

_Oh God…Please…_

_Please don't do this to me…!_

_You can't do this! You bloody can't!_

_Please! Don't do this! Stop!_

_I'll do bloody anything! Anything but this! Please! Don't! Think about what you're doing! Please!_

_Oh God! Stop! Stop!_

_Help…! Someone…! Please, someone help me! Oh God, I'm begging you! Please… stop! Help!_

_I'll do anything! Anything! Just not this! Anything but this!_

_Fuck…! Fuck!_

_How could you do this to me? I thought we were friends! I thought you…_

_No…_

_You bastard…_

_I hate you._

_I loved you._

_Stay away from him._

_Stay away._

_Please… stay away…_

* * *

Arthur murmured to himself in the banishing darkness, shifting his position a little. He gave out a mew of pain. Every inch of his body was writhing with displeasure and hatred, burning with the intense sting crippling him to the spot. The drugs were finally draining from his bloodstream and giving him a little more strength – yet his heart was detached. Even though he possessed the strength to move, ignoring the pain, he hadn't the will. There was no point in moving. It was all meaningless.

The tears had long dried up. Francis had fled the scene. He was left alone, trapped in darkness and solitude, unable to conjure the power to reach the doorway and switch on the light. The light made him sick regardless; migraines tearing his mind into pieces, burning his retinas and confusing his thoughts. The dark was, surprisingly, far more comforting. He couldn't see whatever horrors were awaiting him in the dark. That was good. That was better. He didn't want to be drowned in a world with light again. Not a world where that bastard rapist belongs.

The last remainder of his pride and will to live urged him to move. After several minutes lying in the black void, trying to breathe and prepare for an attempted liberation, he forced himself upright – groaning as his hips creaked and muscles burned. He glanced down at his lap –eyes adjusting well to the minimal level of light – and ran his bound fingers over the curvature of his bone. Arthur winced with a whine as he found countless points where applying pressure was purely horrific. The damned Frenchman must have crushed his bones… though he wasn't too surprised. The sheer force that was implemented upon him was far too tremendous.

He shook his head. He didn't want to think about it. He didn't want to remember the feeling as Francis thrust his body ruthlessly into the mattress. He didn't want to remember the formidable groaning of the bed, rocking back and forth in time. He didn't want to remember the laughter – that horrific Cheshire cat grin on his face. He wanted to forget… he needed to forget. It made him feel so sick. His hands clutched his mouth a second too late; his stomach finally drained itself, along with swarming blood gathering from the inside. He choked and spluttered, leaving the bedside as quickly as possible afterwards – before his knees buckled and he found himself collapsed on the floor.

The knife glinted at him, slowly dripping a baby line of his own blood. He glared at it hazily, like he was expecting it to suddenly start speaking to him. It took another few minutes for him to realise that he could unburden his ravished and raw wrists from their rope prison with the tang of the blade. He snapped it up quickly and rubbed it against his binding until finally it came lose. He cried out with relief as the cold air kissed his unshackled wrists better. At last, he could make his escape if he wished… but he still didn't possess the will.

Where was he anyway?

He didn't recognise the room… it wasn't somewhere he had ever seen before; it was run down, derelict, practically abandoned. One of those horrible hotel rooms that you see on television; the sort with one or two rooms alone to satisfy all needs; he knew the layout from the moment Francis removed his blindfold. The curtains were tattered with moth bites and cursed with an old pattern that had been unfashionable since the 1820s, bed only consisted of one pillow and a duvet with greyed 'white' sheets, a few cupboards and closets here and there. A makeshift kitchen was hidden away in the furthest corner; consisting of a little pathetic miniature fridge, sink, and the smallest stove he had ever seen. There was nothing significant. It really was a dilapidated place - barely worth a penny for a night.

He blinked as he remembered one of the features… an old style telephone – one of the ones you have to hook your finger in and wind the wheel until it fits the number you want – hanging in wait on the bedside table. Arthur practically flung himself to the little black phone, praying to whatever God laid in Heaven above that it worked… and that he remembered the number… He dialled frantically, and held the phone expectantly to his ear. He closed his eyes and clutched onto it as if it was his last ever hope. The heard someone on the other side pick up…

He was beyond saving… but if he could save someone else…

"Hello?" A voice muttered. A tremendous wave of relief struck him as he recognised the sweet sounds of the American. He couldn't describe how happy he felt that he was still alive. He expected Francis to have made his move already… he was already a criminal now. Murder was hardly much of a step up from rape.

"…A-Alfred…" Arthur whispered into the phone, loathing how husky and pathetic his voice sounded. He leaned against the bedside table, holding onto it for support. His head was suddenly pounding even harder, and he felt like he was going to be sick again or pass out any second without warning. He clutched hard onto the wood. Anything to stop him fainting was good… he _needed_ to hear Alfred's voice. The American gave him unnatural reassurance. That was why he loved him…

"What the—Is that you Arthur? Damned, you sound like you're practically dead. Are you okay?" Alfred muttered into the phone, obvious worried panic setting into his voice. Arthur frowned, pressing the back of his hand against his lips in attempts to stop his body rejecting any more of his stomach's contents in a fit of panicked trauma.

"… Alfred, I need to…" He began to croak groggily before Alfred cut in.

"Where are you? I went to your house, but you weren't there. I phoned around everywhere… hell; I even talked to your boss. No one knows where you are! France said you were ill… so are you o-?"

"Alfred, _shut the fuck up _and listen to me… p-please…" Arthur shouted into the handset, voice trailing off at the end, interrupting the American just as abruptly as he had to him. He buried his head in his hand, massaging his sweating temples and trying to will more strength from inside – to no real avail.

"…Listening…" The American finally muttered after what felt like a century.

" Alfred… forget about me." Arthur whispered, tears welling up in the corners of his eyes again.

"What?"

"Forget I ever existed. I'm not good enough for you. Not anymore. Not… _now_." Arthur choked out, tears now running fully down his cheeks.

"Woah, woah, woah! What the heck are you talking about? You… you sound so serious… is this a joke? Cause it's really not funny!" Alfred barked into his phone, voice gone far beyond distress. It broke Arthur's heart to hear Alfred sound so shocked and confused by his words. Arthur privately thanked him for caring…

"I'm sorry. F-f-fuck, this hurts so much…" Arthur wept. His body was beginning to shake uncontrollably. He was definitely going to pass out any second. That would be nice… not having to live for a few moments of his life… he welcomed it rather than condemned it. But he didn't need it now… not right now… not when he was talking to _him_.

"Hu—Hurts? What hurts? Art… Arthur… what the hell happened? Were you attacked or something? Don't go silent on me now! What happened? Where are you?" Alfred was shouting. If Arthur was able to concentrate a little more, he would have realised that the American was trying to suppress that he was crying with panic.

"I can't... t-tell you. A-a-agh… Dammit… L-Listen… forget about me. Please. I'm sorry. I'm sorry about everything." Arthur pleaded.

"Oh God. Oh God… What happened? You can tell me anything... Anything, okay? Whatever you think... don't think that you're alone, alright? Tell me where you are so I can find you, okay? ...You've been awfully quiet... Wait, if you're thinking of hanging up, don't!"

"…Listen… I've never told you before, and… I don't know if I'll have another ch-chance. Alfred—Alfred, I-I love you." Arthur confessed. The phone slipped through his fingers and cluttered onto the floor, followed shortly by the Englishman's limp body. The telephone handset buzzed with the screeching sound of Alfred's distressed voice.

"…Arthur? A-A-Arthur? …I… I think I love you too… so don't go!" Alfred murmured in distress, voice shakily buzzing from the other side. "…Don't go, please, don't go! Whatever happened, I'll take care of you, alright? I'll take care of you. I'm the hero, remember! I'll come save you! Arthur, come back! I'll love you despite whatever happened, okay? Okay?"

_Silence._

"Arthur… Arthur—Are you listening to me?"

_More Silence._

"I'll come find you… I'll find you! Hold on! Dammit. D-Damn it—_What am I going to do_—Whatever you do, Arthur, just hold on!"

The handset bleeped as the opposite side hung up…


	2. A Love Rekindled to Ashen Dregs

Chapter 2: Love Rekindled to Ashen Dregs

**Pre-Year 1000:**

The emotion of joy was drastically audible in Arthur's humming voice, reverberating in volume off of the deep set wrinkled trees of the autumn woods. A distinct smell of oak and the crispy leaves filled the young adolescent's lungs as he drunk the beautiful atmosphere with a lightened heart. Underneath Arthur's feet, the dried leaves that gave off such an intoxicating fragrance, made an oddly satisfying crunch.

The little screams of the leaves, the chlorophyll draining from their bodies like blood from injured wounds, did make him feel sadistic in a sense for treading so happily upon the path of tree's miniature limbs held before him – though the delicious atmosphere of autumn and the singing woods made the strange thought flutter for only an inconceivable second.

There were oranges, browns, greens, and reds… the overflow of colours flashing through his eyes as Arthur swirled to and fro, as an artist's experimental canvas. It was an art and design project that only the gods could have conceived, and he found himself trapped in infatuation with the autumn breeze and the rustle of the leaves as they cascaded to the ground, or tumbled together on the earth just like children playing games. It was with that same childish bliss that he became so thoroughly satisfied; wishing sweetly that the defiant frozen pangs of winter would never come.

Arthur was a sweet boy; one that harboured many dreams and wishes for himself. As a nation, he wished vibrantly to expand his roots – flourish within the new world slowly being discovered around him, make new connections with other people just like himself, and nurture the seed to the largest empire to grace the Earth! He was going to do it, no doubts – he was going to be on top of the world; smiling and regarding his people with open arms. He could imagine it so vividly… the sun would never set on the British Empire!

The child stopped playing around in the leaves and other flora scattered through the decorative autumn woods; resting down by a gigantic horse chestnut tree. Not his best idea – the tree was anchoring its seeds upon saggy branches; huge green cages with spikes, the size of Arthur's little clenched fist, loomed up in the sky, suspended loosely by the umbilical cords attaching them to their mother. He had never been hit by one of the little green bombs, nor seen anyone be attacked either, so recognition of potential danger had been lost. That said; for that autumn, the child was safe. That little conker incident was an amusement belonging to another distant year.

He loved these woods, so he thought with a contented sigh; he cared about the beautiful landscape scattering about the plains around him more than anything that he could bear. Not only because of the majestic colours, swarming around in the many variations of brown, gold, and red – nor the endearing animals that were scattered here and there; squirrels, owls, centipedes, et cetera. But also the lands were close to his heart for another reason; because they were him. Every leaf that fled the trees in the cooling bane of September, every daffodil that rose in the delights of spring; every little inch he stood on… was him. All of it was him.

It was beautiful. He was beautiful…

He had met his best of friends, and bizarre foes, within those woods – the fairies, goblins, golems, ghouls, poltergeists, kelpies, wizards, wythern, boggarts, pixies, imps…et cetera… he could go on for hours and hours describing the fun he had with his mystical friends; the mystical creatures that nobody else could see. He was special in that way. Nobody else could understand the fantastic delights of being acquainted with a supernatural world presents. It was all for him... a child could never feel much more special.

Then there were his neighbours: other people like him – connected somehow spiritually and physically to the lands that are tread upon by their own two feet… nations. He had met and been invaded by a lot of nations, he had to admit. He was young, naïve, and unable to defend his lands as brutally as he so wished. The time will eventually come when he would be able to stretch out his angelic wings and embrace the furthest reaches of the world… but not now. Not for a long time. He was still young… barely old enough in physical age to wield a sword.

Almost everyone, nations that is, he had ever met had tried to dominate these lands; the Roman Empire had taken his mother under his iron plated grasp, the Saxons from Germania were even more successful, and the Norsemen from the east had used him for their own benefits in the past… so forth. The evolution of the land that had slowly and surely whittled down to one single being, him, was a fully versed and intriguing one; although from the beginning, he was conceived purely from the unification of cultures from lands far and wide. Everyone used him. All except from one… Arthur picked up a leaf from the ground and examined the spiralling veins spewing forth from the stalk; intrigued by its colourful visage and the small drops of morning dew dripping on its dying tips. That one was…

"_Angleterre_! I'm happy I found you!" A singing voice called through the woodland grove; an accent originating from somewhere that Arthur had never graced his footsteps as of yet - a foreign place, accessible by only a small channel of water between them. So close, yet so far. Arthur grimaced, shoving his leaf back on the ground and promptly folding his arms in an annoyed huff.

…France.

"…Fuck…" He growled as the Frenchman came into view, appearing from the nearby distance just as prominently as a ghostly figure rising from the ground. Arthur quirked his overly characteristic eyebrows into weaving a heavily set scowl, before rolling his eyes and refusing to further acknowledge the Frenchmen's presence.

"Mm, how is _mon amour_ today?" That Frenchman said sweetly, bending down to stroke the little boy's endearing blond locks; picking out a few speckles of forest dirt as he did so. The Frenchman was several years older than said boy in physical age and real age both; if Arthur was comparable to an eleven year old boy of human variety, Francis would have been around fourteen or fifteen. Still adolescences to a few other nations; but they were rapidly growing in strength. He gave a contented smile, dragging his fingers away from the hair to touch the child's pinkish cheeks.

"_Mon amour_? What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Arthur asked aggressively, slapping away Francis's inappropriately straying hand. The language that Francis spoke was vibrantly different to his own; though it didn't stop Francis from trying to teach him it, and using it constantly within his own speech. Arthur was certain that he was just arrogantly flaunting his own creation. But his language was better, definitely, Arthur thought with an angry frown sitting upon his face.

"My Love!" Francis declared happily, wrapping the younger boy in his arms.

"What? I'm not your _'mon amo~our'_, stupid frog! We aren't in love! Now go away!" Arthur snapped, elbowing the Frenchman in the stomach and trying to force his way out of the teenager's hands – to no true avail. The other country was older and stronger than him, for now. That definitely was going to change in the future; so Arthur promised himself. But for now, he gave in and glared at the Frenchman with a loathing glower.

"Mm? You don't love me, _mon cher_?" Francis cooed with a stupid pout on his face, withdrawing slightly from the closely knit embrace he had entangled Arthur within. The British boy scoffed.

"Don't use that pathetic language of yours around me, frog! And no I bloody well don't!"

"Not even if I do this?" Francis leaned forwards, grabbing Arthur by the chin and angling his face towards him; forcing the Brit to stare at him in the eyes – dark blue, bordering violet, eyes clashed with green emeralds orbs. He pulled Arthur closer, and pressed their lips together for a bare second. Arthur's cheeks immediately turned red faster than a mood ring adjusting to the temperature of one's finger. Francis parted, giving Arthur a disconcerting wink. He had just stolen the Brit's first kiss, and he knew it.

"…A-Ah, n-n-no! Don't touch me, you insufferable pervert!" Arthur spat through tingling lips – the ghost of his first encounter remaining prominently clung onto his flesh. He jerked himself away from Francis quickly, finally managing to squirm out of his fellow nation's grasp, and begun pacing through the enhancing colours of the forest. Francis laughed heartily and hastily followed.

"You're blushing – that means you liked it." He teased, flying to his side and prodding the Brit on his furiously flushed cheeks. Arthur stopped abruptly, looking up to give Francis the most fulfilling look of abhorrence he could possibly muster. He clenched his fist.

"I'm only fucking blushing because you're pissing me off! Read my lips! No, don't you dare twist that! Look, just G-O A-W-A-Y!" He shouted, spelling out his last words and pointing out into the stretches of the woods. Anything to get Francis to leave him alone would be good. He didn't want to deal with the Frenchman's antics as of yet.

"Such a rude child _Angleterre_. I was only showing some affection." Francis moaned, placing his hands on his hips and presenting that agitating pout on his face again.

"I'm only being rude because you've ruined my day! You spoilt my mood with your pathetic face! Wipe away that pout of yours! It's infuriating!" Arthur growled, glancing at that very pout with non-adolescent cruelty lighting up his eyes.

"Oh come now, _mon cher_. You love me being around really, don't you? I'm your closest neighbour after all, _non_?" Francis smiled; watching Arthur intently as his temperate glance weakened just a little.

"I don't love you. Get lost." The Brit rolled his eyes and folded his arms stubbornly, looking away in a momentary lapse of patience and concentration.

"Oh, but you do! Here." Francis grappled his shoulders, and smooched his neighbouring nation on the very tip of his nose. Arthur froze up, becoming rigid with embarrassment. "See, you've gone redder, _mon petit lapin_! _Tu es trés mignon_! Ah; _je t'aime de tout mon Coeur_!"

"You love me with all your what?" Arthur shoved off Francis's hands.

"Heart, _mon cher_!"

"_Good_. I thought you would have said somewhere else – knowing _you_. Jump back into reality, moron." He sighed, turning his back to the French annoyance.

"Oh _Angleterre_. Stop being so brazen. _Il n'est rien de plus réel que le rêve et l'amour_." The French annoyance leapt forwards, standing quickly behind his cute little rabbit and spreading his words in a sweet whisper into the Brit's ear.

"I don't even want to know what the heck you just said." Arthur said strongly.

"…It was something nice, mon cher. Regardless, you're mine. _Je t'aime_. And one day I'll prove that to you! _Je promets_!" Francis fiddled with Arthur's hair, stroking each golden line slowly and appreciatively. He placed a kiss against one of the blond locks.

"…Oh go die already." Arthur exclaimed; keeping his arms dominantly crossed. He gave up on trying teaching the Frenchman some manners already by now. The man just couldn't be tamed when it came to this 'love' business. Romance Shmomance. Francis turned him around, till once again they were staring accidentally intimately into each other's eyes.

"_Angle…non_, Arthur. Arthur, I'll always love you. Not just your lands, your angry blush, and that smile… but also your heart. I'll make you mine one day. One way or another. You'll be mine." Francis smiled.

"...D-Don't say such embarrassing things. Go sexually harass someone else." Arthur stuttered, looking away from the Frenchman's glinting eyes far later than he had hoped. Francis laughed.

"Mm. _Oui_." He began to move away, before speedily stealing another quick kiss from the Briton's lips. He laughed again, pleasing himself with Arthur's fuming frown and scarlet blush, and rushed off in the direction that the Brit had pointed to before. "You'll see, Arthur. I promise that you'll see. _Bonne journée_."

"…_Je… Je ne t'aime pas_, you fucking French twat_! Je ne t'aime pas_!" Arthur spat angrily as Francis ran away. Hatred was expressed even more prominently in the language of the one accused. As Francis disappeared from sight, Arthur stood still – hand hovering over his lips.

He hated Francis. He hated everything about him; that stupid long flowing hairstyle of his, those repulsively azure blue eyes, his petty perverted grin, his infuriating personality… everything. However, just as one can harbour the emotions of both happiness and sadness within one vessel – emotions of hatred and its antonym can arise within the same person at once. Arthur licked his lips, and went to crouch back down by his horse chestnut tree – his angry and composed visage dropping again now that he was alone.

"…_C-C'est un mensonge_… isn't it Arthur? _C'est un mensonge_."

* * *

**Present Day:**

The room remained plunged into absolute total darkness when the English nation finally regained the strength to open his eyes; such a trivial task reduced to a challenge in his physical and mental state. The drugs had by now worn off, the sensation of pain no longer as dulled – his muscles screamed and contracted with revulsion, forcing him to accept the truth whether he wished to or not. His hip was scorching with excruciation, a burning heat akin to that of the chilling crack of bones, smashed fully blown into his body. It felt like he was just rammed straight on the lap by a car, or something just as potentially lethal… it hurt so intensely…

He blinked, glaring at the dust ridden concrete flooring with his lungs wheezing desperately for clearer air. Why did Francis bring him to a place like this to steal his body and dignity away from him? It made utterly no sense whatsoever. Francis had always struck him as the sort of person who would, yes, end up taking people only half willing… but at least do it in a place with a little romanticism and class. He hated to admit, but the Frenchman was far more tasteful. So why the bloody hell did it have to happen _here_?

The immediate thought that Francis didn't ever want him to escape came to mind. But that really couldn't have been the reason, when he knew that Francis allowed a telephone to be in his disposal. Maybe he thought that he would call someone and try getting his way home, or maybe he wanted Arthur to contact Alfred – so he had an excuse to cause his life to end. There was always that unspoken tension between them both.

Or maybe; Francis knew that he couldn't muster the strength to leave. Whether that applied to physically strength, or dignity, he could not foretell.

Arthur wrenched himself from the floor, wiping off the dust and smog from his thin, pallid body. He allowed his eyes to readjust to the catastrophically minimal levels of light, and scuffled around the floor to find the remainder of his clothes. His shirt was ruined; ripped literally to shreds as the impatient Frenchman tore the fabric quickly away, but he managed to find his underwear and trousers intact. After the most painful and awkward dressing session he had ever experienced, expending all of the energy he possibly could have retained, Arthur collapsed back on the floor besides the telephone – filtering out the smell of sickness, blood, dust and sex from his airways with his fingers.

He lost the ability to cry further – going over the point where the will to sob was impossible to invoke. To weep would expend salt and hydration that he was devoid of, and the cluttered chokes and shudders they presented would only cause significantly more damage. There was no point; no use, no way. He had never felt so empty ever before… never before. He was fading away. His eyelids were beginning to become a burden to lift again and the same unwillingness was occurring with his hyperventilating breath. He couldn't hold on much further. But if he left consciousness again; who's to say that he would ever wake up?

Did he even _want_ to wake up? To this?

He closed his eyes. The darkness was so comforting. He never wanted it to go away. If he could linger there forever, wait until all the sores disappeared and his dignity welled back up to a sustainable level at least, willing the time away – watching as the sands of time ticked off the seconds to the end of his life – then he would. He hated this place; he had been ravished sexually and had his pride irreversibly sapped from his mind within those inhospitable walls – but the outside world would always be just as horrific to him now. Light offered no comfort. Nothing could comfort him now… he just knew it. His sanity was over.

Arthur barely batted an eyelid when the roar of an engine came within hearing distance, nor when he heard keys switch off the ignition and the crunch of feet hitting the ground. It didn't matter whether they managed to find him in the darkness or not. He was incapable of standing on his own two feet, and he didn't want anyone to see – not any nation, not Francis (he didn't want to give the bastard the satisfaction), and especially not Alfred. His mind half-heartedly sunk away, and he hugged himself tightly in violently shaking arms.

_Please… don't let Alfred see me like this… please._

* * *

"…This can't be the right place…"

Alfred was correct to assume that it was a land-line that had rung him. That was incredibly lucky. If it wasn't for the 'pressing 1-4-7-1 to get the number of the line that just rang you' method, he probably wouldn't have found the place at all. And thank God for the internet, for being able to tell him where to go. The internet boffins were geniuses… and praise the heavens for Google. You can find anything! Except the number for a good Chinese place that wasn't about £12/$26 a pop or something pathetic like that...

The place was severely run down; it looked like something you would see in a cheap knock-off of a horror movie, where people got attacked by ghosts or vicious axe murderers or something. Definitely not one of _his_ Hollywood blockbusters, he could have proudly assured you of that. Though still, the looming atmosphere of dread clung to Alfred's heart. If Arthur really was there… and he was as pained as his voice suggested, then it was far more petrifying than that.

As he stepped up to the doorway, pressing his gloved hand against the crumbling faux-architecture of the faltering wood, he couldn't stop the chills from running down his spine. The thought was horrific… a guy like Arthur, total gentleman – dignified, if not harsh with his judgment and punishment – being confined somewhere inside the little derelict place he was before him… it just wasn't right. That wasn't Arthur. Why would he be there? …He must have gotten the wrong place. Surely!

He shook the handle. It was locked.

He would have checked the google on his cell phone for the eightieth time that hour, but he didn't have time to procrastinate. Arthur was waiting for him – waiting for his hero. He promised the handsome Brit that he would come take him home, and he was going to fulfil that offer. What kind of hero would he be if he broke his promises? Alfred sucked in a deep breath, stood back, and launched a running kick at the door – smashing the lock to bitter metallic fragments, and forcing it open with relative ease.

"Arthur? Hey—British guy!" Alfred shouted. His voice echoed like an eerie ghost through the halls, bouncing off the walls and spreading whispers of his voice in ethereal murmurs.

He stepped inside, reluctantly – arms wrapping around his own body to stop him from shivering, and heart literally leaping out of his chest with tension. He moved to close the door behind him… but decided that it was better with it hung ajar, soaking the fresh air inside. Both for want of light, which the horrible place was devoid of, but also because he really didn't like the feeling of being closed in within such a scary place… it was just like a haunted house.

He continued to wander inside; considerably jumpy at everything. He squeaked when he saw something crawl in the corner of his eye. Just a spider's web fluttering in the incoming wind… nothing to be afraid of; ha, ha! Hero's don't get scared! No! He wasn't scared. He wasn't scared. Nothing was going to jump out at him from the dark. Nothing was going to suddenly grab his shoulders and drag him down into the depths of Hell, (or worse; Arthur's kitchen – ha, ha…ha… no. This really wasn't the time for jokes…).

If it wasn't for the chance of Arthur being around, he would certainly be running away for dear life… too scary… too scary. Forget the hero façade for now. Even hero's can be afraid every once in a while, right? Right? Ha, ha, ha… Oh God. He was absolutely petrified.

He laughed awkwardly to himself, peering into one of the rooms embarking away from the hallway. The room was absolutely flooded with darkness. Anything could be inside, waiting to attack him or jump out at him and leave him screaming with sheer terror. It smelt, simply, of blood, dirt, sick, and musky dust. He mumbled a little, fingers shaking as he fumbled against the wall to find the light switch. The last thing he needed was someone, or something, to make a-

"_-Don't turn on the light!"_ A sudden voice croaked. Alfred jumped a practical mile, snatching his hand away from the wall and holding it quickly to his chest. He flicked his eyes about the room, trying desperately to find the source of the noise.

It sounded more demonic than human… the kind of voice one would associate to the living dead. His heart beat heightened another smidgeon faster. The floorboards creaked under his weight, moaning compellingly with metaphoric pain.

It took him a full ten seconds or so to realize that it was Arthur that had spoken.

"…Arthur?" Alfred whispered. He wished, prayed, internally that the voice would not confirm his worst fears.

"…Alfred, p-p-please. Whatever you do… please don't turn on the light…" Arthur's croaking voice sobbed through barely conceivable or coherent breaths. Alfred felt his heart skip a beat, threatening to cease through fear. It didn't take a genius (and he was one – being awesome America and all), to figure out that the Brit had been crying his eyes out. The very thought chilled Alfred to the bone.

He had only ever seen Arthur cry two times before. The first; when England lost the American Revolution… and the second...

He didn't want to talk about the second.

That was not a good memory.

Arthur didn't cry unless something was violently wrong. He never shed a tear for himself for a single second when he had gotten himself hurt, or was upset. That wasn't Arthur. He was strong willed, far too stubborn for some, and obedient to protecting his own pride. He only cried when that pride was completely shattered. It left him heartbroken for days, weeks, months… years even. Alfred's breath hitched awkwardly as he stepped a few paces forwards into the darkness. He should know. He had broken that pride of Arthur's once in the past already… and they both suffered unconditionally for it.

"A-Arthur…? Where are you?" Alfred asked awkward, walking with his arms parting the disgustingly stench-ridden air, as if his magical touch could suddenly make the darkness split away and disappear – flooding the room with temporary light.

"…There's a lamp over here…" Arthur murmured. Alfred expected the room to soon be flooded with some light, to calm his nerves and reveal Arthur's positioning; though the Englishman's shuffles could not be heard, nor did the comfort of light soak through the never-ending darkness. The atmosphere was so sodden with so much tension that Alfred felt like he was drowning in the void.

"...A-Alfred… how did you find me? …I told you to forget."

"Caller ID. That doesn't matter right now. Of course I'm not going to forget about you! Look… Arthur – are you okay?" Alfred insisted, looking out into the more or less direction of Arthur's voice. His eyes were taking their sweet time in adjusting to the black abyss between them. But he could have sworn he could identify the outline of the Englishman's figure on the ground. The silhouette dropped its head.

"…N-n-no…"

The whisper came sleekly through the tension ridden smog. Alfred felt his heart begin to oscillate even quicker. His British friend was obviously in significant agony – and that struck daggers straight into his heart, needles puncturing both of their prides irreversibly. Alfred was thankful that no one else was there to see them both break down into terror filled panics. He flicked away the tears that ran down his cheeks, though new ones soon followed in the ghosts of their trails.

"W-What happened, Arthur? You suddenly went silent on the phone. I was so fucking scared! I thought you had died or something!" Alfred gave in trying to stop his voice from straining with dread. He floorboards creaked again as he tried to walk over to the figure cloaked in the shroud of darkness. He watched with eyes illuminated with worry as said figure recoiled and shivered violently after his words had fled him.

"… I-I-I d-d-don't…"

"…Fuck, Arthur. Calm down…! I'm here now, okay? Turn the lamp on." Alfred flopped down besides the shuddering form of the British nation. He reached out to grasp Arthur's hand, reassuring him of comfort – and relieving comfort for himself for that matter. The Brit immediately shrunk away.

"I-I don't want you to see." He spoke quietly, soundly.

"...S-See what? Art, I need to get you out of here. Quickly…" The American replied quickly, imagination running wild with the possibilities of the violent conquest against him – them both. He could feel his heart snapping into two right there and then; seeing the man he collaborated with strength and decency, break down into murmurs of torment and with breathing caught by his sobs.

This couldn't be the Arthur he knew. This couldn't be.

Not his Arthur…

"Please." The smaller man pleaded.

"Oh fuck, Artie, you sound so… what happened? Were you attacked or something? Arthur, tell me." Alfred begun to accentuate his voice, heart pounding ever harder in his chest and throat drying out with his impatience.

"…please…"

"Listen, awesome ol' me is going to get you out of here, okay? I'll take care of you, I promise… I'll take care of you. Arthur… please, _please_ turn the lamp on." He whispered, down on his knees and practically begging. Arthur didn't move – too reluctant and afraid to wander another inch.

Alfred shook his head and leaned over to the bedside table, nudging past the old style telephone and, very hesitantly, switching on the light. The small corner of the room was flooded with a dim, dying, orange glow; more akin to that of candlelight than the seeds sewn from a regular light bulb's bud.

Tentatively, he looked back at Arthur. His face whitened to the colour of brittle bone. Droplets ceased to fall from his raw eyes. He was far too upset and shocked to cry. He felt like he was going to be sick; a violent sense of tragedy tying knots within his chest.

That was not Arthur. It couldn't have been.

He was utterly speechless.

He had lived for hundreds of years; but there were only two other times he had ever been speechless. Both of those times came hand in hand with Arthur's tears. It was just one shock after another.

The first thing that reached Alfred was the thickened sensation of blood filling his lungs. The entire of Arthur's bare, abused, naked chest was teeming with scarlet – the thin line running all the way from his collar bone to the very peak of his hip was still oozing with too much split red. Maroon Poppy bruises, the sizes and shapes of fingers and fists left lasting indents in the Brit's body, memorials of the violation remained beaten into previously beautiful pallid skin. His hair was mottled, mangled with sweat and rough from actions that Alfred didn't dare to think of.

"What the hell happened to you?"

And those eyes… Arthur's beautiful, gloriously gorgeous eyes… capable of drowning men and women both within their emerald tinted chasms – filled with life, splendour, romanticism… everything of Arthur that Alfred fell catastrophically in love with...

…Gone. Just like that.

Dead.

_Arthur... where…__are you?_

"D-D-Don't touch…!" Arthur whimpered; flinching away again when Alfred's finger trailed closer to smoothly run over the bold bruises and cuts ripped into the Englishman's body. His eyes flickered down to the horrific burns torn into his wrists; the dregs of rope seen surrounding them upon the floor, alongside the grey clogging dust. His eyes landed on the knife… discarded to the floor, unwanted – though the blood, Arthur's blood, remained dried to the tang of its blade.

Alfred shook his head, and leaned in a little closer to Arthur – severe caution at the ready just in case. As his slender fingers reached up, the Brit recoiled again… bunching up as if trying to protect himself from an enemy's touch, expecting to be struck. The very thought made Alfred frown more convincingly then he ever had done before. He touched the tip of Arthur's cheek, heart skipping a beat when the Englishman winced, and wiped a stray hair away from the ruined British gentleman's dead eyes.

What the hell had happened to him? Was it an assault, and a kidnapping? Or was it… something more? Alfred's eyes flickered again to the floor. The ripped away fragments of Arthur's shirt remained within view. They, whoever they were, had forced him into indecent exposure. How far down did that lead?

"…Who did this to you?" Alfred said, a solemn frown still forming on his face. He shuffled closer, hazarding to reach up with a second hand. He wiped away the residues of Arthur's sweet tears with the edge of his thumb, and soothingly stroked his hair – removing the tangled knots and calming away the static. Sweat, tears, and blood coalesced on his blank canvas cheeks. Despite his efforts, Arthur didn't calm. He tensed even further when Alfred asked him about… _him_.

"…I don-" Arthur begun to croak through chapped, bloodied lips. Alfred leered down and kissed Arthur on the forehead, pulling the Brit into his arms.

"…It's okay Arthur. You don't have to tell me. Alright?" He lulled. Arthur reluctantly hugged him back, incredibly loosely, while his arms were still devoid of strength. Alfred kissed his hair, struggling to calm him as the Englishman sobbed into his shoulder. Alfred let both their tears run, dying from anguish and worry within each other's embrace.

"…T-thank you…"

"Arthur, I said I'd come find you… right? I kept my promise, didn't I? I kept my promise. I'll take you home." He looked him in the face – emerald green orbs and striking blue clashing solemnly, thankfully, lovingly.

"I'll take care of you. I'm the hero, remember? I'll save you Art, I'll protect you. Okay?" Alfred whispered, struggling to administer the consoling of a smile to support his words. "…I'll take you to live at mine for a while. I don't want to let you out of my sights ever again. I fucking promise you that I won't let you get hurt again. I promise."

_Je promets!_

He laughed awkwardly; an absolutely false cheer in every sense. Any way to expel the horrific nerves and calm his mind was good. Not a second passed after his words before the high and mighty America broke down into another fit of tears; shuddering with his hands covering his face, seeming like he was oscillating with laughter.

"…I-I love you A-Arthur." Alfred struggled to choke out through haphazard breaths. "I've always loved you – from the very beginning. Oh God. Arthur… I-I…"

…He loved him, but he couldn't save him. What kind of hero was he?

_Je ne t'aime pas! Je ne t'aime pas!_

Silence…

"Arthur?" Alfred questioned, looking down at the Brit held softly within his arms. The previously beautiful British gentleman, ruined by an abuse that Alfred didn't want to hear the details of, had his eyes closed and had gone suddenly limp. The salty droplets running from Alfred's eyes fell onto Arthur's cheeks, mingling with the dirt fogging away his pale face. Had he fallen asleep, or fainted from the blood loss and pain? Alfred didn't want to know the answer. He was already broken down enough in his obliviousness.

He leant down and kissed Arthur sweetly on his blood soaked lips; bringing his unconscious love as closely as he could without causing further harm. Their first kiss together. Not one of fairy tales… no fireworks, nor sparks, nor anything wonderful novels pretend occur – soaked pitifully within their own fantasies. It was a sweet kiss made out of panic and desperation. Reality was not that beautiful… reality doesn't let there be a happy ending.

_C-C'est un mensonge…isn't it, Arthur? C'est un mensonge._

Alfred kept himself entrapped in Arthur's lips; pressing them together and rocking back and forth. Like a widowed lover consoling their beloved's corpse. His hands instinctively ran smoothly up Arthur's naked torso, wincing away from any indications of sore bumps, and stopped when they reached the very core of Arthur's chest. A great sense of relief flooded through him as he felt Art's heart beat and chest rise exasperatedly still. That heartbeat was far more than a lifeline to him. It was everything… his whole world.

Alfred withdrew, finally, and licked the dark specks off his own lips.

_Je t'aime de tout mon Coeur!_

"…I love you with all my heart, Arthur." The American whispered – begging that Arthur would hear him in his sleep. "I'll always love you. No matter what anyone has done to you. I need you… so… s-so…"

Those eyes were…

"-don't disappear, okay?" Alfred begged. Forget the hero composure. He didn't need it right now. He was far too desperate.

...So empty.

_Arthur, where are __you__?_

"Come back…" He murmured; burying the Brit's head into his shoulder and smothering himself within Arthur's unruly blond locks; running little desperate butterfly kisses down the Englishman's battered neck, as if his lips could magically will them away with each soft embrace. No luck. Each poppy bloomed just as detestably flourishingly as before.

His fingers trailed down the sides of Arthur's naked torso, stroking even further down than he would have ever dared if the Brit was awake. The tips smoothly rubbed the throbbing exposed skin, lovingly remembering and tracing the curvature of the body he fell unconditionally in love with – more a deed of tragic romance gripping him rather than an indecent act. He stopped immediately when he felt that something about it was wrong.

He could feel a very definite crack split into Arthur's hip – the bone shifted in a manner that made Alfred's fingers tingle with anxious sensitivity and abnormality. A shiver ran like a ghost's fragile touch up his spine. Alfred placed another kiss onto Arthur's lips, easing both their pain away, and scooped the Englishman into his arms. He held the fragile body, a body more sacred to him than crystal and more brittle than glass, close to his chest – sharing warmth to heal that ripple of goose bumps on Arthur's skin.

"…Let's go Arthur…"

The dim orange light illuminating the room went out with a shrieking buzz and a flash. They were plunged into darkness once more.

* * *

_Translation notes:_

_Mon petit Lapin = My little Rabbit_

_Tu es trés mignon = You are very cute!_

_Je t'aime de tout mon Coeur! = I love you with all my heart!_

_Il n'est rien de plus réel que le rêve et l'amour = Nothing is real but dreams and love._

_Je promets = I promise!_

_Bonne journée = Have a good day._

_Je ne t'aime pas = I do not love you!_

_C'est un mensonge = That/it is a lie._

* * *

_One of the future chapters, I'll delve into the origin of where both Alfred and Arthur's love for each other came from – because obviously, it's a bit weird just shoving them both in and saying 'oh yeah, you two totally dig one another. Like; no reason.'_

…_That came out like something Poland would say…_

_Don't hate France just because I'm making him a jerk in this story. The reason for this, by the way, is something that I intend on tackling soon. Though I've a few things to achieve first._

_Thanks very much for reading again guys. I hope the way I'm going with the story is good enough for you… *nervous laugh*…_

D-Shi.


	3. Vows Broken, Promises Fulfilled

Chapter Three – A story of 'Vows broken, Promises Fulfilled'

**Fourteenth of October – 1066**

Arthur was one to remember the past vividly; he remembered a time when that place was once filled with life – luscious green grass shrouded over dells and an expansive forest to the east, blue skies blessing the land with the warmth and friendliness of the sun's rays, flowers… (Daisies, poppies, snowdrops, tulips, colours of the rainbow with happy luminosity beyond imagination scattered like seeds upon the waiting field) dancing within the wondrously relaxing eastern breeze.

For him, this place was once one of beautiful solitude. A place to visit when one was bored of the busy lifestyles they lived to bring about some distilling peace back into their hearts. It was a beautiful place, Hastings; not too far from the sea – if you squinted, you could certainly see the vague blue shape of the ocean in the distance – and filled with good people. People who did not deserve to suffer. His people…

One of his favourite places was ruined; never again to retain the same sense of beauty or dignity. The luscious green grass was stomped to a splattered mess; sodden mud unearthed and foliage crushed under the feet of two contrasting armies. The flowers lost their favour – their beauty faded away just as easily as the light in a child's eye when their innocence became irreversibly tainted. Even the light of the sun had been clouded away; the heavens opening with wrath, spurting unending rain to wash away the violent dirt ripped into the beautiful body of the English countryside.

The solitude was gone. What was once tranquil silence was now replaced by men's tortured screams, battle cries and pleads for help – praying to whatever god would save them from their inevitable suffering demise. What was once beauty was now dirtied with the ugly legions of bodies, a horde of immobile soldiers, and the horrific weaponry and tools of war like abuse splattered to and fro from every direction – murdered corpses already beginning the awful process to rotting away, degrading into soil and returning to the planet.

Arrows snapped, shields abandoned, swords embedded within flesh, clashing metal ringing in the remaining men's ears… the list of unconformities could last forever. And the most devastatingly of all, to him, was the ocean of blood draining out and enveloping the land with the thickest stratum of red that his young eyes had ever had the displeasure to see. He had never seen so much blood; and the blood of his people no less.

Their battle had come to a catastrophic end. The war was over. All was lost. The only vague sense of life that remained from his side, his loyal people, belonged to those straddling behind – awaiting a timeless death, to be labelled forever among those who never survived the last battle for Britannia's pride. The Normans were already busying themselves with slaughtering the last of those containing a drop the English blood. Only a minimal remnant of his brave soldiers had managed to escape to the forest over the way. …But now, it was too late to run.

There was no longer anyone to save him.

…It was pointless for him to continue fighting back now. His hands were already covered with the dried blood of his enemies. Palms raw and knuckles white from clutching tightly against his sword with the remaining extent of his strength. He had continued to fight even after his king was slain by the conqueror and his knights, arrow through the eye and sword wounds ripped into his now deceased body. Being the embodiment of Britannia itself was an advantage in itself – his body far tougher than those of the human kind; effectively immortal from those despicable human's hands. He had slain too many of the opposition's men singlehandedly for him to count…

Strictly speaking, he was still a boy – a teenager no less; approximately seventeen years of age, if you counted his age only in physical appearance. To another's eyes, he would have been deemed weak; the boy's body was incredibly frail in comparison to those of his defeated army – small shoulders and hips, no real muscle filling him with strength. Many of the enemies had tried to challenge him and had been quelled; unawares of the definite title he kept. Had they known that he was the person they were fighting for; to steal away his freedom or to protect him; then their actions certainly would have been different…

He was immortal by human standards; though he was still violently vulnerable. Arthur was practically on his last breath; sword wounds gashed into his side through his armour protruding more blood than Arthur cared to acknowledge. His left leg was snapped, bone uncomfortably jabbing against his flesh, disabling him indefinitely. He could no longer fight back.

He was paralyzed with both immobility and fear. Head pulsing violently with the shrillest of pain, hair soaked with dirty cascading rain, sword bloody and abandoned on the spoilt ground, tunic and armour splattered with the blood of his people, the enemies, and his own. Defeated, he knelt; eyes darting across the battlefield to peer forgiving out on those he failed. He pleaded they would forgive him for allowing their lives to be spent. They all died for him – for his pride and freedom…

What was going to happen to him now?

He had been invaded before. Saxons, Norwegians, so on and so forth. He had seen blood before; far too much for one sporting the physical shape of a teenagers body should ever witness. Like the crushed flowers within the battlefield of Senlac Hill; his eyes had faded of their colour and the innocent glimmer was already ravished long ago. He was already tainted with the pains of war, a child with only the possibilities of a good future to come; though nothing tainted him more viciously than the horrors of this…

…Within this battle, only one could slay him. The true battle of warfare was between the countries themselves. The rights to invade him; rip him of whatever wealth or resources he could ever present, strip him of everything he ever found sacred, ravish his women, and men at that, destroy his pride, and use him beyond his worst imagination belonged only to the soul of his invader.

He supposed it was inevitable. They promised him that they would come back and make him theirs. …He just never realised it would have been _like this_…

Arthur peered out into the crowd, watching with disgust as the French slaughtered the rest of the straggling Englishmen, eliminating the last of his forces and strength to fight back. Arthur gagged, clutching his throat to stop himself choking up blood as spears pierced his men's flesh and swords slit their throats and let their veins run dry. The link between their blood and his being spilt was very clear. If they suffer, he suffers. A small dribble of red ran down from the corner of his lips. The pain, suffering and anguish his people felt condensing all into his body. With every man slain, his population taking a devastating dive, Arthur died a little more inside…

Eyes linked with his; and one of the stray groups of Norman soldiers approached him – speaking with that bitter language he loathed more than any other; voices arrogantly touched with joy that the victory was theirs to celebrate, a spite that Arthur cared nothing for. His eyes widened as he saw one step forward and draw their sword, metal tang glistening ominously as the sun poked through the clouds and lit the scene with calamitous illumination. The violent predatory look in their eyes distilling unadulterated fear into the heart of the only Englishman remaining alive as the one that stepped forward pressed the metal to his neck and lifted his chin. His emerald eyes were filling with vulnerability as the Frenchmen chattered and laughed to themselves, awfully antagonistic smiles on their sickening faces.

Arthur batted the sword away, getting to his feet – haphazardly, it must be said – and suddenly lunging to pick up his own sword's hilt, ready to fight back in retaliation. Another Frenchman jumped forwards, kicking the murderous metal out of his hand while the last two grabbed his body roughly and pulled his arms behind his back; throwing him back down on his pitiful knees. Arthur yelped loudly in agony as his damaged leg hit the floor. The group laughed at his failed attempt to escape, amused by the Brit's inferiority and warbling moans. Once again, that blade was pressed at his throat.

"_Il est beau, non_?" The Frenchman lifting his chin laughed to his friends; rubbing congealed blood from the Brit's cheek with an outstretched thumb. Arthur squirmed underneath the man's grasp as he bent down to his level and begun to play absently with the Briton's dirty blond locks. "-_Pour un sale Anglais_".

As the group of Frenchmen burst into another bout of spiteful laughter, the Brit shouted bloody murder at them and begun to struggle harder in their arms – all too aware, regrettably, of what those scum had said. The seeming leader gave a dissatisfied tut and violently pushed down the teenager's chest, forcing him to the ground with his blade pressed lightly against his throat. The other three men withdrew their own swords in preparation, ready to strike the Englishman if he dared to try squirm out of their grasp again. Arthur stilled, glaring daggers at the vicious invaders; his skin crawling with disgust as they touched him. The leader lowered his blade away from his jugular, and began to quickly rip away the armour protecting him from lethality, and slowly cutting into the tunic underneath; stripping away the fabric concealing his adolescent chest, ignoring the Brit's loud and violent angry protests.

The leader clasped his hand over Arthur's mouth firmly, lowering the volume of his screams significantly to that of a low growling mumble. He parted the shredded fabric and ran his dirty fingers over the milky white sheen of the Briton's flesh, pleasuring himself with the touch as Arthur continued to writhe underneath. The Norman Soldier's strident smirk shone down upon him with intentions as plain as day. His free hand begun to lower, freely groping the flesh and curves of the man, the country, they fought to dominate and forced his legs wide apart. Arthur's protests finally begun to die away; the battle was lost. The war was over. They had won… he no longer had the strength or right to bat away their hands. The group's leader begun to fumble to remove his own armour, crushing Arthur's jaw underneath his hand as the Brit finally begun to give in. There was no hope… not anymore… their laughter provided the melody of his misfortune.

"_Qu'êtes-vous en train de faire_?" Another voice not belonging to the group of Norman ruffians spoke out, breaking the piercing laughter with even sharper viscosity. French rang naturally off of the man's tongue; his efforts obviously belonging to the other side. So why were they bothering to save him? Arthur glanced up and blinked with surprise. A great degree of gratitude reflected in the Brit's faded green eyes. The enemy soldiers had suddenly fell silent; and no wonder why. He knew he recognised that voice… "_ Ne savez-vous pas qui il est? C'est Angleterre lui-__même_!"

"_C'est lui? J-je suis désolé, mon seigneur!"_

_"__Ne le touchez pas, compris? Il est mien! Maintenant partez!"_ Francis pushed the men out of the way, shouting at them to sheathe their swords and leave. They immediately obliged and scattered away quickly, unwilling to bear the grunt of their own home country's wrath. Francis sighed deeply, watching them leave with a scowl on his face. Arthur stammered; unable to comprehend whether he was supposed to be thankful for being saved or not…

It was because of Francis that all of this happened. It was all because of him that the blood of his men, his good people, was strained out and fixed the atmosphere with a peculiar thick smog of choking metallic taste. It was all because of him that he was suffering. The Frenchman had cursed his lands with misery and torment for far too long, fighting for his leader's right to become his King. All of it was his fault. And for that, Arthur loathed him. He loathed absolutely everything he represented; his awful language, his land, his people… he hated every single thing about him.

But yet, he loved him all the same.

What kind of moron was he?

"_You!_" Arthur blurted out after a minute or so of exasperated silence; the fierce ferocity between them sparking to something of an insanely critical calibre. Arthur could insanely feel his whole skin crawl desperately with sensitivity as the Frenchman locked his eyes with Arthur's body, drinking in the Briton's half naked demeanour. The atmosphere was incredibly tense, and neither Frenchman nor Englishman had the audacity to utter a single word to each other – let alone look each other in the eyes. Finally Francis begun to move, leaning in to look at Arthur's critically damaged leg – though the teenager slapped away his advancing hands.

"Don't you _dare_ touch me, you fiend!" Arthur growled, shuffling away a little. Francis scowled in return, and got up to his feet.

"You wound me, _Angleterre_. Do you not understand your situation? You are under my command now. I have the right to touch you as much as I so desire." Francis stated clearly to Arthur; acting as if his speech was as standard as a businessman stating his objectives. Arthur scoffed in return, narrowing his eyes.

"I _wound_ you? You are the most insufferable cretin I have ever had the misfortune to meet! Look around you! Whose lands are you standing on? Whose people have _you_ killed? Whose heart is being sombrely ripped into two, you fool?" Arthur screeched with anger, pointing his finger up accusingly to the French nation. The Frenchman barely moved, standing and staring at the Briton knelt down sorrowfully on his feet.

"_Anglete_-" Francis begun; stepping a few paces forwards before his slow calming speech was immediately interrupted by the cocky Brit.

"MINE! That's whose! And it's all because of you! This is all your fault Francis! I'm dying because of you! What you stand for!" Arthur pointed to himself, the white intensity of anger almost blinding him with rage.

"_Angleterre_…!" Francis frowned deeply, trying to still the Brit's words. His voice was no longer calm – agitation brought to its limits.

"Why? Tell me! Why did you do it? Just because one man wants to become my King? Never! I will never accept him, or you! This battle may be over, Francis, but you'll never succeed! You hear me? NEVER!"

"ARTHUR!" Francis shouted, tensions and anger scathing between them. "You continue to misunderstand! You do not have an option. You _will_ accept William into your monarchy. You _will_ surrender yourself to us both. And I already _have_ succeeded. You have lost, Angleterre. Victory belongs to me!" Francis said bitterly, taking another step closer with each heated sentence. The Brit grinded his teeth with profuse discontent; fists clenching until his knuckles turned page white. He began to struggle to his feet, mouth open ready to object; but was immediately felled by a swift kick colliding with his chest.

Arthur gasped for oxygen as Francis winded him, scowling deeply and crushing his adolescent chest underneath the Frenchman's armoured boot. Every time Arthur tried to lift himself up with the minimal extent of his remaining strength; he pressed down even harder, eyes shining coldly with a ruthless chill and frowning ever more unforgiving than the Briton had ever seen before. The Frenchman looked positively possessed, vacant of heart, as he bent down and whispered in Arthur's ear.

"Do not think, for a single second, that you are the only one whose heart is being torn!"

As Francis whispered, devoid of his usual arrogant splendour – reducing himself to the raw essences of being – Arthur whimpered underneath his heel. His attempts of frantically clutching for air were finally quenched, lying stilled on the muddy ground as the realisation that he truly had been conquered dawned upon him. Their eyes at last locked; blue violet orbs swarming with bitterness while green irises shone dully with anger and defeat.

No one to save him…

Francis sighed, released his weight off of the Brit's chest, and glowering with acrimony as Arthur panted in silence for the remainder of his breath. He didn't wait for him to calm down, and grabbed his ankle; beginning to drag him off of the battlefield. Arthur writhed and yelled, swearing blindly and trying to grasp hold of the grass to help lever himself away – blades of green giving him little cuts and stains; a mockery of his failed attempts. Francis kept his glance focused on the area in the advancing distance as he forcibly hauled the Brit kicking and screaming for help as they entered the forest surrounding the bloodied Senlac Hill. Once deep enough into the woods, Francis dropped the adolescent and propped him up against one of the oaken trees.

"Y-You..." Arthur stammered, unable to speak with any more strength since his throat ran callously dry and weakness was slowly overcoming him. "What are you going to do to me now…?"

Francis acknowledged Arthur's pained expression, giving it his own look of animosity in return. The Frenchman reached forwards, grabbing Arthur's already ruined tunic and prising it apart – ripping it completely off of the youth's chest. He wagered a chaotic smile as he saw Arthur's eyes widen with realisation. Once again, Francis leaned down; causing a shiver to find its way formidably up Arthur's spine, shuddering mildly as hot breath trailed across his neck.

"I've said it before, _mon amour. Je t'aime. __Tu es à moi__."_ Francis murmured into his ear and immediately continued from where his soldier had left off; stroking his hands over the darling boy's exposed skin. Arthur trembled, closing his eyes firmly, clenching his teeth together as he swallowed the urge to moan out in bliss as the Frenchman softly fondled his skin with clear expertise. As much as Arthur loathed him, as much as Arthur wanted the vile git to die and finally leave him in seductively desirable peace, he couldn't bring himself to reject the feelings setting alight in his chest. Arthur squirmed; hating that his cheeks were burning red and detesting the hands pulling his body closer. He wanted more than anything to run. But he couldn't. His leg was broken, and even if he was not wounded – he would always be found. He was a nation after all. He couldn't escape from them. Not from him. There was no where to run and no where to hide… it was hopeless. All he could do was to plead.

"N-no… Francis… Francis, stop!" Arthur panted when he felt the other's hands at his waist, stripping his sash free and abandoning it besides them. The man frowned and grasped Arthur's hips roughly, pulling him underneath his legs – ignoring the Brit's request.

"Francis, p-please…! I-I'll do whatever you need… so p-please d-don't… don't do _that!_" Arthur wriggled, glancing up at Francis with his large emerald eyes shining with moisture threatening to fall down his cheeks. As soon as they locked glances, Francis's eyes darted away again; focusing intently on the job at hand. He knew he didn't want to stop; he knew he wanted to make love to the Englishman. Because Arthur was the only true love he lent his heart out to in the whole world. Sure; the Frenchman had been akin to romance in the past, staying within the beds of both men and women despite his relatively young displacement (approximately twenty or so years of age in human terms)…

…But he had never been in love with anyone else - no one but the young boy underneath him, on the brink of crying and pleading for freedom…

"Ahn… Francis!"

He was in love with him, so strongly that it ached his heart to see him whimper and suffer. To see his blood spilt because of something Francis and his leader had done. But he had to do it. He wanted to take Arthur for his own. Seize him and make the gorgeous boy his.

He didn't want to stop.

"F-Francis… N-no…"

…but Arthur's mews were already getting to him. The panic in his voice as he begged was heartbreakingly solemn. Francis grimaced profoundly as Arthur begun to stop struggling – giving in and accepting his fate. He didn't want his petit lapin to give up hope. The glimmer was already faded away in his beautiful green eyes, the colour of murky spring… tainted by the awful sights and depressions of war. No light, no hope…

Francis shook his head, realising that his hands had ceased and continued his handiwork. He clutched Arthur's hips firmly between his thighs to keep him in place as he begun to strip himself of his own clothes and armour – chucking them quickly to the floor. He scoffed as Arthur averted his glance from his now naked body; embarrassed flushes cursing his cheeks. Continuing about his business, he ran his hands onto the Englishman's juvenile thin framed hips and quickly unburdened him of the remainder of his clothes. The Briton barely moved, whimpering now sadly to himself. No hope.

The Frenchman felt his breath hitch as he drunk in the beautiful visage of Arthur's young adolescent form – exposed for his blue bordering violet eyes to enjoy alone. He was thin of body; bordering slightly into the more concerning levels of health, though this was not anything surprising considering the state of irrational affairs gripping the world with famines or wars. Skin ever pallid; barely a tone above that of milk… the lack of true sun and warmth gracing the young teenager's lands showing very clearly on his physique. The only real appearance of colour within his pigments was gracing the boy's face, blushing profusely red, as he trembled with fear and embarrassment. That and the collections of blood that had gathered at his side and broken leg, along with the grass stains imprinted onto his fingers.

Silently, their eyes met again. Arthur's emerald irises filled with nerves and wordless hatred for Francis and what they both knew he intended. They terrified him dearly with the intensity of loathing, the will of his people, and petrifaction. Although he still couldn't get enough of those eyes. He loved them gazing at him, thinking of him, making his skin tingle as they devoured his appearance… he adored the feeling of attention… and Arthur's attention was all he could ever desire. He really loved those eyes, and especially the man they belonged to. He smiled briskly, and ran his hands across the insides of Arthur's thighs – pleasing himself as the Briton let out an exasperated gasp.

Britannia was his. Those eyes and the young man they belonged to was his…

He couldn't stop…

"W-Why!" Arthur choked out – breathing cutting out short.

"…Mm, what do you mean, _mon petit lapin_?" Francis purred; leaning down on top of the Brit, pulling the boy's torso into his arms, and beginning to spread kisses across his soft white collar bones.

"Why are you doing this to me…?" Arthur panted, digging his fingers into the ground firmly until his fingernails were caked with dirt. Francis paused for a second, thoughts flooding him, before immediately dismissing whatever they were and continued to nip and lick at the Englishman's bare shoulders, pleasing himself with Arthur's soft groans in complaint.

"Why, _mon amour_? Because I promised I would. I promised you that one day, I'll make you mine – did I not? I want you _Angleterre_, Arthur, and now you belong to me… I'm going to show you just how much I love you." Francis spoke softly into Arthur's white skin, trailing his lips across the boy's thin, fragile neck while his hands groped at his thin torso – leaving lingering red imprints behind his finger's paths. The eager hands fell further downwards, grasping the English boy's ass to the reward of an exasperated squeak from his trembling beloved.

"…I-If…" Arthur groaned, eyes still shining with the beads of moisture that threaten to leave his eyes so ominously. Yet they never left. A ghost like shiver finds its way through his spine to the base of his neck as Francis nibbles affectionately at his flesh. He doesn't bother struggling anymore. His people have been killed… too much of his own blood had left him in the heat of battle for him to even have the strength to react to the anger boiling up in his chest. The fluttering feelings of his thrilled heart somehow dissipate the fury. He really was a traitor to his own people and his self, for this. For daring to fall pray to his foolish infatuations. He couldn't help but hate himself for it. He just didn't want to get hurt.

"Mm?"

"If you loved me… y-you wouldn't…" Arthur whispered, burying his head against Francis's shoulder. He was horrified beyond belief. Internally he could feel the tragedy tearing his people apart, women and children weeping the sorrows of the slaughtered, the remaining populace losing hope now that the battle was over. The war was over as well; no matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise. Even if they fought back… it would just be useless. They didn't have the will, the way, or the power to retaliate. He was undoubtedly conquered. His mind flashed to the images of his people lamenting for his misfortune once more.

It was for them that he didn't ever cry. For them, he was determined to hold a stiff upper lip. He was British, after all. If they cry for him… then he'll just have to hold in his own tears. That was the British way… his way. They deserved some comfort - some inner strength. Though patriotism is nothing significant to the world he recognised within himself… he needed to give them, and himself, the same reassurance that he had lost to their faded wills.

If they had no hope; he'd have to fight for it by himself.

…He'll fight back one day… that childish dream echoed in his mind. He wanted to rule the world. Become the largest empire there ever was. It was an inspiration he was determined to fill. His people were merely impatient demons waiting for the time to awaken and retaliate against the world that made him tremble. The seas that surround and engulf him will be his to sail and command. He'll seize countries beyond his secluded isles – conquer just like Francis and everyone else had gone to him before. Redemption will come. He'll show them how it feels. He'll show them that he is not to be underestimated. He was merely too young to act yet. His golden moments were just a swallow's flight away.

All he had to do was wait, for the time for those demons inside to awaken. Then the world would be his.

But… for now… he couldn't stop grimacing in fear. He was too young. Too young to see blood like that, and too young to have his innocence stripped away from him, by _him_.

"I wouldn't what?" Francis said in a callous voice, withdrawing as Arthur whimpered and sobbed dryly against him. He seized the Brit's chin, not bothering to be gentle with brittle bones, and forced the boy to look at him in the eyes. The blush had increased to an even more violent shade of ravished blood red. Pupils contracted with fright. Francis licked his lip, loving the contact of Arthur's eyes flooding upon him. He wanted it so strongly. Fear or love, hatred or care – it didn't matter… whichever way; those dulled eyes, his tremulous frame, and those cautious emotions… were all for him. Because of him. All his. His.

His _Angleterre_, his love.

"If you loved me… you wouldn't hurt me."

Francis laughed.

"I am afraid, _mon amour_, that the real world is not as kind as you wish it to be - especially for people like us. Wars are only the beginning of the endless nightmare. Famine is just an illness that will come and pass. Immortality… is the biggest curse for us all. We have to slowly watch everything we love degrade and disappear. If we do not let go and adapt… we'll never be happy. They say scars, tragedies, last forever, _mon amour_. And love is the biggest tragedy of them all. Someone is always hurt when love appears. There is no happy ending. There is no ending whatsoever for us." He grinned. An obvious look of apparent sadness was clouding the nation's eyes. "Not until the day when the world ends, or our citizens lose all hope."

"…Hope…" Arthur whispered. The glance at the Frenchman never wavered away. The beautiful sheen of emeralds completely dulled to the faded luminosity of blood-soaked, trodden grass. "On that basis, Francis… you've already killed me."

"_Non, Angleterre_. The one who has killed you is yourself. I, _mon cher_, will be the one to bring you back to life." Francis replied strongly. Arthur's words had touched his last nerve. The look of ferocity on the Briton's face in the form of furrowed eyebrows and defensive scowl driving him over the edge. He always found his anger so appealing. He loved the flustered blush and grumpy glares. It was a form of lust and ecstasy that drove him over the edge... the little voice in the back of his head, shouting at him to stop and leave his petit lapin alone, becoming clenched and muffled by blinding want. Francis grabbed Arthur's hair and yanked his head back, exposing more of the neck that the Frenchman had the severe desire to kiss.

"Ahnnn! W-Wait! Francis! Don't!" Arthur shrieked; holding in muffled moans as the Frenchman shifted so that his knee fitted in between his thighs with a monstrous smirk cursing his features, propping the Brit further against the trunk of the oak tree. Francis barely batted an eyelid to his increasingly more hysterical complains. He was already bordering possessed with yearning.

"I-I'm still a virgin! I-I-I don't want it to end this way! Please…!" Arthur begged, bringing his hands up to cover his face from the embarrassment and scrutiny. Francis paused again - actions slowing and hands wavering. He looked down at his stilled hands; as if considering them traitors against his will. The voice in the back of his mind was now screaming at him to retain his sanity and leave the boy alone. 'Still a virgin' repeated itself in his consciousness. He was not only going to strip him of his dignity, but also his innocence… the guilt stayed buzzing in his chest as he reanimated to suddenly force the English boy's legs apart.

"F-F-Francis!" He protested still – voice becoming increasingly high pitched. Francis stared back at him, frowning with annoyance after realising that the gaze of the Brit's eyes was concealed by his hands. Francis leapt up and snatched the boy's wrists, a brief flutter in his mind noticing how small Arthur's wrists were still in comparison to his, tearing his fingers away with ease and shoving them hard against the bark of the tree. The Frenchman felt his breath hitch once more as he saw the innocent frown filled with sadness staring back at him – devoid of anger, devoid of fear. Francis released his constricting grip, and brought his fingers back to lightly brush the Brit's cold cheek. He looked so beautiful… and he was all his.

Francis leant down, and pressed their lips together passionately; barely waiting a second before slipping his tongue into Arthur, exploring the depths of the English boy's mouth without caring for restraint. He stroked the surface of his cheek, allowing a deep moan to pass from his lips as he seized the adolescent nation strongly. Arthur didn't fight back for dominance at all… barely moving underneath the Frenchman's grasp except to tremble slightly in his wake. His eyes were closed lightly, scrunched slightly as if he was trying to figure out what to do. Francis drew back, taking a gulp of air before softly kissing Arthur again.

But this time, it was different… Francis parted again with haste, looking at Arthur with bemusement. The Briton still had his eyes closed, sealed shut tightly in either denial or a deeper confusion. He was noticeably quivering all the while.

He felt the boy kiss back.

…

He watched Arthur in absolute shocked awe. He wasn't wrong… but, but why? Why did Arthur kiss him back?

Francis ran his hand softly over the boy's cheek, wiping away the dirt that had gathered on his skin – spots of blood and blotches of mud ruining his expression. He leaned down to seize the Brit's lips again, to taste and to feel that he was correct… and he must have been… he wouldn't be wrong about something like this. Why was he so confused? The Brit was screaming out for help only a second ago, denying that the nation of France had any sort of hold on him at all. And now, here they were. As Francis brushed their lips together again, teasing and testing him, Arthur leant up and kissed the Frenchman back. And again, and again – each kiss as nonchalant and amorous as the last. Arms quickly wrapping around each other's waists and necks, mouths open and tongues ravishing each other with adornment and passion, fingers roughly trailing through the opposite's hair and stroking at their exposed skin. Francis frowned, dropping the Brit tangled loosely in his arms and scrambling backwards a few steps.

…What…

Finally the Brit opened his eyes and enveloped Francis within his glance, emerald irises glowing as the sun cascaded from the skies above; rays of light shining through the dispersed grey clouds and gracing the lands of Albion with a sharp and sad reassurance. The light trickled in between leaves and branches of the tree canopies overhanging ahead, spreading patches of the unkindly mocking shine across the Brit's naked torso. The younger's chest rising and falling quickly as he gasped for breath and wrapped his arms protectively around himself. Francis nibbled his lip absently, drinking Arthur's visage in once more.

He was so young, so thin… bright and filled with potential and a clear adolescence gripping him. He looked so innocent with his milky complexion, radiantly red blush, and slim hips… so undeniably beautiful in his youth. Unspoilt as of yet; despite the foul fights and savage hand of war the teenage nation had witnessed in his more barbaric past. Lean, strong and beautiful… this was the boy that will eventually become the largest empire the world has ever seen. Albion, Britannia, England… Arthur.

His Arthur…

…What was he doing?

The boy was quivering dramatically, lip wavering sadly and tears in the corners of his blisteringly beautiful eyes. Francis felt his heart sink in his chest. How could he dare touch such a child? It was like taking a wondrous painting and ruining it with nonchalant doodles. Ruining its splendour, purity, charm… just like that with no disregard. He even was still holding onto his virginity... the heart beat dying out in his chest stabbed him even more painfully at the thought. Britannia had felt its lands being plundered and ravished before, but never like this…

What kind of villain was he? Falling so far prey to his lust that he tried to seize everything he wished to be his without even thinking of the consequences. Albion would hate him forever if he did it. He'd never forgive him. He loved those eyes looking at him either way; with hatred or anger, sadness… he adored Arthur's attention on him with a passion.

But he loved it when those eyes were filled with happiness the most.

"…I… cannot do it." Francis finally blurted out after what seemed like hours of hesitation. Arthur's expression noticeably lit up as at least some hope was restored. The Frenchman gave the lightest of smiles in return, gazing at the young child he wanted to corrupt with reverence. "…I cannot spoil something so beautiful and so innocent…"

"Francis… w-what are you…?" Arthur stammered, staring up at the French nation in absolute disbelief. Francis sighed deeply, and leaned down to kiss his sweet pert cheeks on both sides – a gesture of comfort, he begged Arthur would realise. The boy was no longer trembling with fear, though his critical immobility had come as possibly a more frightening silence. Francis could hear both their hearts beating in unison, the hush in the forest now that the cruel battle still echoing noise of arrows swiftly hurtling through the air and clashing of swords grinding metal against metal had dispersed seemed so unforgiving now he took the time to hear it. There was nothing around; nothing in sight but animals, trees, and killed leaves. They were so isolated… just Arthur and he.

His inner voice had finally reached him through his burning desire, and now that Francis could hear it, it whispered softly and told him that everything was okay. He would be forgiven for what he was thinking; what he very almost did to the young teenage nation – his love, his Arthur. He would be forgiven… since he stopped himself before it was too late… Francis laughed lightly to himself, clear undertones of sadness in his voice. What had he done? He really was a villain, it seemed. Who was he to ruin something so perfect?

_I'm sorry, Arthur._

"Arthur... one day, one day I will make you mine. But… today, today is not that day. _Je suis desolé_. Please… forgive me." Francis muttered slowly, allowing a calm breath to pass through his lips. He ran his hands through the Briton's soft sandy blond hair, toying with it delicately like a bird cradled in his grasp or water rushing past his fingers. All of them were supposed to be free; the bird, the water, Arthur… who was he to capture just a precious thing? It went completely against his morals… his vague illusion of love, true love, always brought out the worst in him.

He quickly left the boy against the tree to redress himself, and begun to wrestle back on his own tattered and blood stained clothes; feeling Arthur's eyes set on him once again. Francis picked up his sword and scabbard, gave the Brit one last reassuring smile, and begun heading back to his people – the victors of their fight. His own fight, well, he was still at battle with himself; but at least now, the enemy had been put at bay... for however long that would be. The ground crunched underneath his feet as he left Britannia alone to care for himself. He knew that was what Arthur probably would have wanted… to be in solitude for a while, and calm down in peace without worrying about other people's impressions of him. Arthur was the most self-conscious person he knew, and he so believed it all was an absolute secret. Francis smiled dearly at the thought.

"_J-Je vous pardonne_."

He stopped immediately and turned around to look at the Brit, desperately covering himself with the tatters of his clothing – seductive curves and milky pure white skin still exhibiting itself for Francis's eyes to drink with delectability. Look, but don't touch. Francis's smile had disappeared completely, replacing itself with a questioning gape. His voice faltered when he wanted to ask the adolescent to repeat what he had said. His own language had somehow suddenly become alien to him… or maybe it was just because it was so unusual to hear those lips speak it so willingly. Either that or he had gotten it wrong. …But he knew he heard it correctly. The sentence filled his slowly blackening heart with joy.

"Thank you Arthur, thank you." Francis said calmly, clutching his scabbard tightly in his hands, and promptly left the forest to rejoin his men.

* * *

_TRANSLATION NOTES:_

_Il est beau, non? – He is beautiful, no?_

_Pour un sale Anglais__. – For a dirty Englishman_

_Qu'êtes-vous en train de faire__– What do you think you are doing?_

_Ne savez-vous pas qui il est? C'est Angleterre lui-__même! – Do you know who he is? He is England himself!_

_C'est lui? J-je suis désolé, mon seigneur!_ _– He is? I-I am sorry my liege!_

_Ne le touchez pas, compris? Il est mien! Maintenant partez!__ – You do not touch him, understand? He is mine! Now leave!_

_Je t'aime. Tu es à moi__. – I love you. You are mine._

_Je vous pardonne – I forgive you._


	4. Your eyes tell stories, laced with lies

**_Oh yeah_.**

**If you used to read this 'back in the day'… your inbox is not lying to you. There **_**genuinely is**_** a new chapter of this.**

**So… it's been over a year. I blame several factors; college work, my kink meme fill (of which also paused for college work xD), and guilt. I say guilt, because I can't write fics properly without feeling like I should be revising instead… It's all obligation. Anyway... I've got six exams, and then I'm off of college for good. Or, three months before university starts. Hopefully this means three months of getting to finish this…!**

**Though more in spirit, I've never truly abandoned the storyline. I've always intended on finishing this; though now, I suppose I have an opportunity to.**

A special thank you to Junoan, who fixed all of my awfully bastardised French for the last chapter. I most definitely owe you.

**Expect drama in this chapter, and **_**especially**_** the future.**

* * *

Chapter 4: Your eyes tell stories, laced with lies

* * *

It was true that Alfred had no idea where to begin. The journey home was tough; while Alfred did have a home in London specifically in case there were any meetings or the sort that he was required for over in the European continent, it was still a long drive over. When you have someone near you that you wished to keep your eye on at all times, just in case the other factor woke up and required your help, it was very hard to keep your concentration on the road and not where you really wished it to be.

Needless to say, Alfred had probably broken the British speed limit a multitude of times, trying to get to his house - which was even more dangerous, considering that he skipped the motorways and stayed purely on the residential routes to keep out of the boresome traffic jams. Heavens, he even went on the curb at one point to get past a few people. But damn them - this was an emergency!

While the journey progressed, he was constantly watching Arthur out of the corner of his eye. The Englishman barely moved, apart from a few odd convulsions whenever they went over a bump in the road. Naturally, with a damaged hip like Arthur had, going over so much of an inch of rough ground was enough to force grown men to cry. A small part of Alfred was highly glad that Arthur was asleep and missed this pain - despite Alfred's own want to find out what in Hell's name had happened. He could not handle seeing Arthur cry one more time.

The lingering image of Arthur sobbing in front of him was horrific. Mainly because Arthur was an often violently stubborn man - the sort that held strength in his body and mind at all times. It was in his nature to not cave when pressurised, and to persevere when the times were at their roughest. Arthur's tolerance was low cosmetically - as in he would argue against those he deemed as 'idiots' (a.k.a. Alfred) to no ends - but high in actuality. When the going got fierce, he would fight till the very end for his cause. He was a fighter; the type of person that could fall to the very brink of disaster, and then claw his way back up to the throne at the top of the world; a true superpower, in his own right.

He did not cave when he was stressed (that is, despite acting like he was on his 'man-period', pissy and in need of a good hug and a cup of tea). He barely faltered whenever he was injured (Alfred could remember when Arthur was briefly blinded for a few days after 7/7, when the infrastructure of his capital more or less ceased). There was never a tear shed when his allies were in trouble; his reactions towards rescue planned and boastfully calculated. But now, where had that Arthur gone?

Whatever had been done to him - Alfred digressed - must have been absolutely horrible.

Now, they both knew fully well that Arthur was a strong man, and that barely anything ever got to his head - but, for Arthur's reaction to be like this? Alfred had never seen the other so scared, and crossing in the borders of broken. The Englishman _did_ _not get broken_, so Alfred's memory dictates, but here they were. He had fallen asleep in his arms, after crying out eyes that were more deceased than the American had ever known them to be. This was not right.

Whatever it was, it was more than just a regular assault with a bunch of bad guys that Alfred had to teach a lesson to. Had it just been physical violence, Arthur would have just shrugged the bastard or bastards away and not given much of a toss. But there was something different about what happened. Instead, the Briton was pretty much mentally mind fucked. Their eyes could hardly establish contact, without it eating away at something deep inside him. It was like whatever devoured the Englishman's whittled-away heart had spread into his body too. Simply put, Arthur's destroyed state broke his heart.

When Alfred finally arrived at his home, a smallish place - for a nation's residential estate that is - with only a few tens of yards of separation from its neighbouring homes for privacy, he parked his car and turned the engine off. The house place plunged into an uncomfortable silence that was suffocating for the usually sociable and excitable American. He shot a sideward glance at his company, running a hand over his face when he realised that he had just no idea whatsoever what he was going to do with him.

What was he supposed to do with a man that had been hurt, mentally and physically, so badly that he _begged_ him not to see? A horrible niggling feeling in Alfred's chest told him that the Englishman probably would not have liked to be touched at all, so most of the things involved in taking care of the man would have been right out.

Defeated, Alfred decided that the best course of action was to take the Briton inside of his house and wait for the man to awaken. While he did that, too, he could at least search on the internet of what to do - fine, yes, he was that bad with this sort of thing that he needed the assistance of the online community. Better than nothing, wasn't it? - or get in contact with someone. The part of him that was into TV dramas and such said that he should get in contact with some sort of therapist as soon as possible.

Either that or he should have taken Arthur to hospital. He was not sure why, however, but Alfred refused to let the second thought remain in his mind for long. Perhaps it was the fear of hospitals themselves - with their deathly white halls and ghostly airs residing in the atmosphere, clogging it with feelings of dread far more than healing - or the fact that they were nations, with physical healing rates that were far above the capabilities of a regular human.

Or, perhaps, it was because taking Arthur to the hospital meant that he recognised that this was serious - and every fibre of Alfred's being told him that he did _not_ want to think along those lines. He also did not want to be told what happened from anyone other than the Briton himself. There was something horrific - shocking and crushing - about being told by someone that you don't know that someone you loved was not going to be the same ever again. It could be that the incident was nowhere as severe as Alfred - and his classically concerned, panicking mind - had automatically assumed from that broken tone and those darkened, crying eyes. But, what if it was worse than he thought?

...He did not want to know. He did not want to worry like that.

So, Alfred decided that he would do this on his own. He would be there for the Briton like nobody else could apart from him, and him alone. Purely because of three, tiny little words that were barely breathed out while the Englishman was panicking on the phone those many hours ago. He knew that Arthur told him to forget. But he also knew that the dirty-haired blond really did not mean those words. More than anything, it was a cry for help for the one person that could fix him. Needless to say, there was no way in Hell that the American was not going to oblige.

Despite Arthur not knowing, theirs was a love that was rekindled. What sort of man would he be if he let the person he cared for most diminish_, like this_? Truth needn't be told, he was not a masochist.

After leaving the car and collecting Arthur back up into his arms - the Brit seeming so boneless and crumpled within his grip as he unconsciously winced away from the warmth the American brought - he climbed up the patio stairs and haphazardly struggled through the door, finding it much harder to open the door with a man bundled in his arms that he thought.

Without even bothering to kick off his shoes, despite the presence of thick dust on the soles from earlier, he trailed through into the living room and splayed the occupant of his arms onto the couch. Instantly, the sleeping Englishman twitched and twisted towards the cushioned side, curling most of himself away from view. Alfred did not miss the wince of pain, but he tried - almost desperately - to block all knowledge of it from his mind.

Stepping back, he observed the damage - both thankful and sick that the light sinking in from his windows lit far better than that lamp did back in _that place_. The bruises were magnified so much more prominently in the clear light, and he could see the disgusting sheen of the dried blood on the top of Arthur's torso; however, with the light shining on them properly, he could scale all of the injuries to size. Apart from the bloodied wrists - Arthur would definitely not want to pick anything up for days, certainly, whether it be a pencil or even a knife and fork - and the broken section of his hip, it did not seem to be too bad.

Of course, he was not sure if there were any damage to the man's legs because he had somehow managed to shimmy his way into some clothes before Alfred had come to fetch him. He did not want to reflect on how painful that must have been to do up.

In reality, for what Alfred could see, it was not too bad - relatively speaking. A lot more bones could have been cracked, a lot more blood spilt and a lot more sense beaten out of him. But that was all the symptoms of the physical demeanour. He could not possibly fathom how damaged the Briton _really_ was, until the man woke up and talked to him.

Honestly, he had no idea what to do with himself. Whatever plans he had before this had gone straight out of the window. He seemed to remember an invite to someone's house, here in the European continent - hence why he was in England in the first place - but the knowledge of exactly whose popped out of his mind. It was immensely difficult to work out what he should do while he waited for the Briton to wake up.

Tentatively, Alfred reached out and took Arthur's hand into his own. While he was unchanged in flesh and blood, there was a sort of opacity to the Englishman that he did not recognise. It was almost as if he was a different person living in the same body. Before, there was a sort of luminosity to his skin that denoted, through and through, the life that the man had to spare – but now? Now there was just a dull sheen, like the spirit had been sapped completely out of him. Of course, Alfred was afraid that he might have just been too overcautious, a hypochondriac but directed to Arthur's pain rather than his own. He was just worried, when there was nothing to be worried about.

If Arthur had been attacked by some sort of gang group, or even an individual, it was highly to assume that the assailant would come back for him. Nobody took a man out of their regular life, took them to the middle of nowhere, and beat on them just for the hell of it. Whoever did it, they were either downright insane or they had been targeting him. Perhaps it was all of the above.

Honestly, Alfred could think of a lot of reasons why someone would hurt him. Racial hatred for one; you could not get whiter in the mind than Arthur, and there were suspicions of extremists out and about in the country. He might have gotten on the wrong foot with someone. Secondly, the man was not exactly the best at keeping his mouth shut when it came to insults. A single misplaced word here and there would have done it.

Another possibility was that someone – and he hoped vastly that it was not the case – had found out about the man's nationhood and intended to conduct some sort of experimentation into their bodily limits. Alfred cringed at the very thought of it. While they were immortal by age, they still suffered from injury and pain just as much as their similar human vessels. Nations got sick and felt pain just like anyone.

Truth be told, there were lots of reasons why Arthur would run into someone and get harmed. He was a boisterous target, with opinions as solid as they are when he voices them. The Englishman was an honest man, and in this day and age, people did not like true honesty; political correctness gone mad, maybe, or white lies to disguise the truth – but not _real_ honesty. He was outdated by the big reel of tape wrapped around his government's mouth. They, the nations, all were. The world did not really have an entitlement to free speech – not when a single word could get you killed, and a name could give you a prison sentence.

Was it really surprising that Arthur got on the wrong side of that?

The American rummaged through the first aid kit with his spare hand, trying to find the Dettol (silly British brand) and cotton wool buds with his spare hand, while insisting on watching the Englishman carefully – trying to gauge any reaction he might have. If he twitched or snuffled uncomfortably, then he told himself that he would stop and try to wake the man up. It was all well and good thinking of what could have done this to him – images of people, all of them ruffians with scars on their faces and mean expressions because Alfred's visions of 'bad guys' were warped by television and comic books – but it would have been far better to ask the man himself what had been going on.

Might as well, he thought, get the truth straight from the dragon's mouth.

Pouring the Dettol onto the bud – which was fun considering he had one hand spare, he could have assured – he lifted the soaked cotton wool up and rubbed it on Arthur's wrist to clean it against infection. Knowing just how much the disgusting clinical-smelling chemical hurt when applied straight to wounds, he winced for the Briton's sake. Truthfully, even though it was supposed to hurt, he hoped that the pain would knock him right back into consciousness so he could – softly – interrogate him with questions. Still, this was an advantage too. With him still unconscious, he could get him fixed up before Arthur had any chance to suffer more.

It did not take long to clean up all of he small visible wounds on Arthur's arms. The cuts were not too deep, but more-so burnt by friction and snatched. It was certainly enough to make Alfred's stomach lurk just looking at them, though. Whatever happened, he could tell the Briton had fought for dear life. Just like his real Arthur would, he remembered. The Arthur, that was, that would fight to stand up for what he believed in and would not be disarmed by anything. Obviously the latter point was wrong.

Reeling out a roll of bandages, the younger of the two turned one wrist in his hand and applied sticky tape to hold one side of the bandages down to the skin. Wrapping the gauze around the thin bony wrist was an easy enough task, in actually, but it was harder for Alfred to do than he would ever have thought. He could not take his mind off how disgusting he thought the bloody mess was – it really did make the American feel like he could lurch up his breakfast into the kitchen sink – and how much it was reminding him of days long departed; back, pre-revolution, when Arthur did the exact same to him in return.

He was not sure when it happened, but suddenly Alfred was aware of darkened emerald green eyes watching him. The wrist in his grip flinched, turning immediately from the floppy and lax structure with limp fingers to something tight and solid as a fist. A sharp hiss was heard from a mouth that did not belong to Alfred's own, and he soon found himself staring up into a horrified expression; eyes wide as dinner plates, skin looking not a shade away from a pallid, sickly grey. His grip must have relaxed – startled - enough for the other to snap his arm away, because the American soon realised that he was not touching the Briton anymore.

"…A-Arthur?" Alfred was horrified himself by how quiet and reluctant his voice sounded when he spoke. It was cracked – he really had not realised – and uncertain; like he was worrying even more subconsciously than he was aware. He hated it. What sort of a hero paused and stuttered?

"Don't touch." Came the reply; a simple yet meaningful demand. It made Alfred choke when he realised that Arthur's voice was even worse than his own – like congealed liquids had clogged up in the smaller man's throat and made his vocal chords have to _strain_ to let out a single noise. Not that the 'single noise' that was let out was too pretty either. The Briton sounded like a metal blade being rattled in a tin can.

"Hey, hey now. I'm just dressing your wounds, no need to go loco, aha." Alfred said, lips twitching into a smile that should not be there. The gesture certainly did not relax Arthur, because the Englishman soon took a sharp inhale and scooted back a few inches on the sofa. A pang of pain must have run through him, because he stopped before shrinking back to the end to gasp into the air.

Sitting straighter on his knees, Alfred reached over – following Arthur's movement with his hand – to carefully take the arm back into his hold and finish dressing the wound. A quick movement flashed through the air and Alfred stared – shocked – when he saw that his hand been batted away. Arthur held his own injured one straight in the air, as if ready to strike again if he needed to.

"I-I said don't touch me!" He exclaimed, mixed with both fear and a low guttural growling. For a moment, Alfred was simply paralysed. Then, characteristically, he burst into a small laughter that was like sunshine; never there when you want it to be.

"Nice joke, England. You really, really scared me there! Man, my heart is rushing and everything!" Alfred laughed back, trying best he could to sound positive as he always was. The American ignored the way the Brit was looking at him – like a frightened puppy watching its master hold a stick to beat it with – and shifted until he was standing. "Geez, don't scare me like that. Don't cha always complain that one day I'll have a heart attack from the food I eat or sommat? You don't need to help it along! '_Don't touch me_', you say. Seriously. You act as if I'd ever hurt ya."

It was far from relaxing, but casually the Briton lowered his hand back to his lap, watching the younger expectantly as if he was waiting for the other to do something. Alfred was sort of unnerved by the way those deep earth-coloured eyes did not dare blink, but he managed his stature well enough.

"Am I getting the silent treatment?" Alfred queried, while Arthur continued to be unmoving. Stay positive, whatever you do stay positive. "Is it because I ratted you out so early? Oh damn, sorry if I broke your act. But I think it'll be okay now if you settled down. You've been in my English home before right? Your Brit-houses are so small! I feel so claustrophobic in here! Hey, I know what'll settle y' down! Tea. Yeah, would ya like that?"

There was a jarring motion from the Englishman on the couch, and his previously tensed shoulders slumped noticeably. Alfred would have smirked in accomplishment if he was not already wearing an insistent smile. He nodded, clasping his hands together and rubbing them.

"Yeah! Of course you would!" He laughed, as if the answer was completely obvious all the time. Never in all his time of knowing Arthur did the man regret a cup of tea when offered. "So, uh, do you wanna help me make it? You… You always tell me my cups of tea taste like – whutwasit? – '_piss-water_'! There we go. No matter what, hearing you say that with your British accent makes me laugh so hard. Sorry, but, you're just too cute!"

Arthur flinched in on himself at the last word, eyes finally shooting off somewhere else away from the nattering American's eyes or lips. The air became silent again apart from breathing for several seconds, before slightly swollen and chapped lips opened.

"…Yes, well…" He muttered, cracking his own smile. This one being even more chipped than the one that Alfred was persistently maintaining. To someone else, the room would have looked like a storage for fixed faced porcelain dolls. "Not my fault you have the mentality of a child…"

"There's my Arthur! I missed you buddy!" Alfred laughed. "Come on, let's go get you a '_cuppa_' or whatever you call it! Want a hand gettin' up, creaky old man?"

"I-I'm not—! …Not… old…" Arthur groaned in complaint, voice not sounding a single bit better even after exercising his vocal chords. Instead of getting up like Alfred was hoping, the Briton sagged back into the sofa even further. Alfred was not exactly expecting him to get up with a spring in his step, but he was really hoping that the stubborn older man would at least _try_. The apathetic way he was speaking and acting was _killing_ him. "Alfred, I think I'd… I'd rather stay sat here."

"Pff, you ain't gettin' up? You really are getting old. I should buy you a Zimmer frame for next Christmas or something!" Alfred chirruped. He was majorly hoping that he would get a shouting at for abusing the Brit's language or something to that degree, but it did not come. A tug in his chest reminded him that there was no way, with small injuries like that, that Arthur would be in any sort of mood to fight back. "You can get joke inflatable ones off of the internet! Damn, I'm so tempted…!"

"I…" Arthur started, though Alfred was more than happy to interrupt him with a chuckle. There was no point in letting a scratchy voice get scratchier. Similarly, the tone was scrapping his insides with every syllable. This was just a disaster.

"Oh, damn, I forgot! I don't know what happened to you, but, those bastard bullies smashed the hell out of you broke your hip or something. I remember it being real fluidly moving when I brought you back here. Don't worry yourself sweet-cheeks; your best buddy Alfred is going to take care of you!"

"Bullies…" Arthur repeated, sounding sceptical towards the reference in a way that Alfred did not like. It almost sounded as if he knew who did it, and the term was too odd to be placed with them.

"Yeah, bullies. Who else would kick you about like that?" Alfred said, offering a strangely weak smile. He pated Arthur lightly on the shoulder, not missing the way that the Briton winced at his touch and made certain that his eyes were on something else. The action did not confirm or deny to Alfred that his words were true, like he had hoped.

"Bullies," Arthur repeated again, going rigid in his position. The air turned awkward between them quickly, unnerving even Alfred and is usual inability to tell what the atmosphere read.

"Y-Yeah, a-anyway! I'll be right back sugarplum, so hold on tight! Don't run away now." Alfred suddenly grinned, winking at the Englishman as he hightailed out of there; striding towards his kitchen to get away from the now unmoving Brit.

Tea; the British elixir of life, and also known - to Alfred - as one of the blandest drinks known to man. Lovely as the honey nectar-coloured and sweet smelling stuff seemed to be, the taste was unforgivably boring. This, of course, was the opinion of the man whose people invented Gatorade. To those with a subtler taste, however, it was a refreshing and reviving thing that brought warmth to the very tips of your fingers. Never mind it being not flavoursome - it was practically a cultural ritual to get a member of the United Kingdom's commonwealth up in the morning. Alfred was not estranged to how relieved the liquid make Arthur. He hoped, sincerely, that boiling a pot would get Arthur to calm down.

Luckily, he had tea bags - because it was incessantly insisted that Alfred had some under pain of death, or British grumpiness - and so setting the tea would not be much of a problem. He whizzed through the kitchen, getting supplies a-plenty and pausing numerous times to change his mind for what Arthur does with his tea (it was not a well kept secret that Arthur preferred Earl Grey, which to Alfred tasted a bit too much like liquorice or aniseed, but things like amount of milk and whether or not to add sugar were questions that went beyond him).

Finally when he finished, he stopped and stared into the drink that he had made; inhaling the scent that the liquid gave off. Sometimes he liked to brew tea just for the smell – because hateful as he found the stuff, it still reminded him of his Arthur. He imagined that the hint of tea would always be lingering on his lips, along with the slightest hint of salt and mildew. It was a comfort when he needed it – and right now he needed it more than ever. Because strangely enough, the scent of tea in front of him now felt even more like Arthur than the actual thing sitting on his couch.

Once he got into the living room again, Alfred almost dropped the porcelain in his hand – a large gloop of the concoction he had made fell to the floor as he jolted in surprise. Putting it down immediately and forgetting his burning hand, Alfred rushed over to Arthur.

"Hey—Hey, hey, don't do that…!" Alfred panicked at him in a flurry, grabbing hold of Arthur's wrists. The Briton wordlessly complained, trying to yank them away again so he could continue to remove the slightly sticky bandages off of his raw skin. "Arthur, I know it stings and it's gotta itch—But you _need_ to let your wrists heal!"

"I-I don't care—! M-my skin's dirty… I have to take them off… i-it burns…" Arthur muttered half-nonsensically. The American gave him an appraising look, trying to determine what the other was talking about. Dirty skin?

"…O-Oh, do you want a bath or a shower of something?" He offered, wondering if Arthur was self-conscious. His own skin absolutely _crawled_ when he touched dirty things and forgot to clean up, so he guessed he could empathise – the place he had found Arthur in _had_ been covered in dust. Arthur's hair, now he took the time to notice, was heavily faded.

The Briton did not look up at him as he slowly nodded, and clutched his hands protectively to his chest when Alfred let them go free.

"That's a-okay!" Alfred continued, trying to stay whimsical about this – even if Arthur was acting like he would never be his proper self again (that… that wasn't true, right?), it did not mean that he had to suffer the same fate. "Come on, I guess you won't be able to get to the bathroom yourself… b-but I'll be your hero and carry you up there. Kay?"

"...Mm…" Arthur murmured, and Alfred's heart skipped a beat; though not in a good way. There was nothing good about this. He would normally never let himself depend on him – but Alfred guessed that even the prideful Englishman knew it would be hopeless for him to move too much. Carefully, he scooped on arm under Arthur's legs and the other around his back and lifted him into the air. Arthur forgot to try stifling the grunt of pain.

Once in the bathroom, Alfred flipped the toilet seat down and temporary placed the other blond there to sit (…or slump against the wall besides it, uh, yeah, that was fine…) while he ran a bath for him. Luke-warm water collected at the bottom of the tub, and the American swilled it around playfully, wondering whether Arthur was a bubble bath man.

"Arthur?" Alfred waited till the lifeless eyes were upon him, and swallowed thickly. "U-Um, do you need me to undress you and take care of you or will you be—"

"—I'll be _fine_." The Briton responded too quickly, cutting off the rest of Alfred's sentence. His vocal tone was a touch too strong and unsettling.

"Are you sure? I mean…"

"_Fine_." Arthur repeated solidly. Whatever words Alfred was going to contribute turned to nothing but silence in the American's mouth, and he coughed awkwardly to remedy himself. With a sigh, Alfred turned off the taps and dipped his hand into the water to check if it was the right temperature or not. With his personal seal of approval, Alfred made his way back over to Arthur to help him unravel the bandages he had given him – all that effort; what a waste.

"Call me when you're done, okay? I'll put these bandages back on for you." He informed Arthur with all the good will of his heart. Taking the slight droop of Arthur's head as a confirmation, he smiled in the face of sadness and revealed the other nation's chaffed wrists to the air. Arthur hissed. "Do you remember much about what happened yesterday, Arthur?"

Arthur's head slumped forwards more, and Alfred felt like he could take his heart in his hand and crumble it into dust with the tension between them. Even when they were not in agreement, they were animated and argued; so see the Briton just so… so _fucking lifeless_… it stung. "It's okay. You don't have to tell me." He nurtured, flinching to stroke Arthur's cheek though suddenly decided against it with his hand already lingering above him in the air. Once again, he pretended that he only needed to cough.

"Look, Arthur… when you called me, I told you something. You were really unresponsive, but I want to know if you heard it." Alfred finally got the courage to murmur. It hurt the very most when he knew for a fact that Arthur had told him that he loved him. They loved each other, for God's sakes! Why was it so silent? Did Arthur even remember what he had said? He could not understand what was going on. All Alfred knew for an absolute fact that if he found out who did this to Arthur – to make him into such an unresponsive _puppet_ – he was going to kill them. No matter who it was; he was going to _kill them if it were the last thing he ever did_. "Did you hear me tell you anything? Anything about you and me…?"

There was a pause, stagnant and expectant, but after the long moment was over Arthur shook his head. His eyes were misted over more than usual, moss coloured eyes having lost their shine. "No. No, I didn't."

"...I thought so." The American responded, shifting straight up to his feet. He quietly threw the bandages in his trash can ('bin' – Arthur probably would have corrected in a heartbeat. _Before_, that was) and wordlessly moved towards the door. When Alfred's hand touched the handle, some emotional reaction from Arthur must have piqued.

"Alfred, are you alri—" He started to say, but then Alfred raised a hand; cutting Arthur's speech off like a knife. Alfred just did not want to hear it. Who was he to answer when Arthur would not even do him the same basic privilege? Besides, it was _his_ _Briton_ that was in trouble and in pain. Not him. He was upset, but who was he to impose that on him?

"Yeah, yeah, man, no, yes. I'm cool. I'm okay. _It's_ okay." Alfred replied – for once, his voice was fragmented. A closing tone that usually disgraced the Englishman's lips, not his. It was soulless, uncharacteristic, but most of all, _broken-hearted_. No wonder Arthur did not react well to him. He did not know their love was mutual.

In any other situation, Alfred would have reminded Arthur with all the ecstatic feelings boiling up for the Brit inside his chest; releasing it all out in, maybe, another kiss and those three most important words uttered casually under his breath; but the reality was that it would not be as simple as that. Remembering how he took his and Arthur's first kiss away when the man was _unconscious, unfeeling_, was enough to make it ache. Declaring his feelings, again, would only end in upset if he did it now.

"Call if you need me, will you? I'll be right here. Right here, darlin'." He muttered while Arthur looked on with stress and more than a little bit of distraught. Alfred was not even looking in his direction, but he knew exactly what expression would be on his face. Defeat and turmoil – knowing that he might have brought that partly on was a burden, but he took it. Because, selfishly – why did he just have to be so selfish? – he was hurt that Arthur would not, at least for now, be his. Just like he hoped. What a hero, huh?

He left sharply after, and Arthur sat completely stilled. He was too overwhelmed by what was going on – but mostly, presently, he was overwhelmed by the tears in the corners of Alfred's eyes that he swore he had seen as the door was shut.

* * *

"H-hey, Mattie—Where are you?" Alfred spoke into his telephone as he sat on his living room couch, pinching the bridge of his nose – pushing his glasses down nearer to the slightly pointed tip, obviously – and then moving to rub his closed eyelids. For some reason they were really prickling and burning. Moist as well, but Alfred tried to figure that in favour of concentrating on what he was doing.

"I'm visiting someone right now, why? Were you thinking of coming up?" A soft but good-willed Canadian voice came like the voice of an angel in comparison to the scratchy tone that Alfred had been listening to from both himself and Arthur. A few of the nations were required to go to a meeting for the World Trade Organisation in Geneva, Switzerland, in a few days time and were gathering to resolve a few nicks; mostly revolving around the seemingly never-ending Doha round again. It always seemed to be about that, these days. They had been disagreeing about it for _years_.

"No, no… I… aah, I kinda was wondering if you could come up here." The American mumbled, and on the other side of the phone his more Northerly brother struggled to hear him.

"Come up there? You're in England, right? Why do you need me—Can't you get Arthur to give you a hand, whatever it is?" Matthew queried, and Alfred knew instantly that he had obviously not heard the news. Great – just _great_; it would be his job to explain to everyone about Arthur's condition, without breaking down because of it – just _fucking awesome_. "Er, Alfred—Are you okay? You sound really odd, but it might be bad reception…"

"I'm fi—"

"—_Alfred._" Matthew murmured. Why did he have to be able to read him like a book, even over the phone?

"—Kay, yeah, honestly? No, I'm not fine." Alfred sighed, dropping his head into his unoccupied hand – propping his elbow up atop his knee. "I can't get Arthur to help, cause he's already here, and _he's the problem_. …Fucking… fucking heck, Mattie!"

"Alfred? Alfred, calm down." Matthew tried to soothe as his brother showed signs of wanting to just _snap_. He relaxed once he heard his brother take a big breath to settle his building and climaxing nerves. "What's wrong? Did you get Arthur all annoyed again, eh? You know you need to think about what you say before you say it! What did you do?"

"What did I do? What _didn't I do_? I've been taking care of him all day. It's just… damn it. I can hardly say it." Alfred stammered, disarming feelings getting the better of him. But this was his brother he was talking to. They were as close as bread and butter. "Something… something _happened_, Mattie. Some _retards_ abducted him and attacked him—!"

"Wait, _what_?"

"They took him to his really old and dirty place in the middle of the countryside and just… I don't know what they did. But he managed to call me and I found him a few hours after they had gone—And he had cuts and bruises all over him and everything! It's sickening, Mattie, it really is. I-I can hardly stand to look at him…" The younger of the two cried with distress into the speaker. He could practically _feel_ the shock and horror from his currently silenced brother. "He isn't taking to me properly. Just says one or two word responses, and _damn it_ how can something like this screw him up like that? I ain't got a clue what I'm gonna do, Matthew. What if they threatened to, I dunno, 'get' him again if he tells someone all the details of what happened? _Fuck_—What if he gets hurt just 'cause I brought him back here. _Oh shit_—What am I gonna _do_?"

"Alfred! Alfred, cool it down, mister!" His brother urged him, and Alfred stopped talking in the distant _hope_ that the Canadian would have a better clue what to do than him. "That… that's awful. I really hope he's going to be alright. But Alfred, right now I'm more worried about _you_. You're obviously not dealing well…"

"…Tch, well, _yeah_. I… I love him, bro. I'm in love with him – you know that. And he, um. Over the phone, he told me that he loved me too. But he said it in such a way that… I think he thought he was saying it as, like, a final goodbye. Like he didn't think he would live to see me again, a-and… _dude, don't start crying. No, no, no…_" Alfred panted, wiping away one of the tears beginning to fall from his sore eyes.

"Okay, that's it. I've heard enough." Matthew declared, and Alfred listened intently in confusion. "I'm coming over there right now, Alfred. I don't care if you object and say that you want to do this by yourself because you're a 'hero'—_you need some help_."

"…S-Sorry, Mattie." Alfred begrudgingly spoke, reluctantly admitting his current hopelessness. He wanted to help but he _couldn't_. A guilty feeling was building up walls all around him; at least he was man enough to confess to defeat.

"It's alright, Al. Everything is going to be alright. Look, I'll get there as soon as I can. Just hold on tight." Matthew told him kindly, giving his good wishes and goodbyes before hanging up – sincerely hoping that Alfred could cope for another few hours on his own.

As soon as his brother hung up, his shoulders hunched, phone tossed to another seat, and he collapsed his face fully into his hands. Seeing Arthur in such a condition was disturbing. Not only because the Englishman was battered and ruined physically – an extent to which Alfred did not even know. What kind of things could he be hiding? Alfred had not enough gathered the courage, _fucking courage_, to even check the Brit's damaged and disgustingly fluidly moving hip.

More-so, it was because he was not right. Those forest-moss eyes were unseeing, or at least did not see the world with the same, albeit stubborn, life and fortitude. He and his responses were just… _not all there_. Like whatever happened opened a box in Arthur's mind that sucked out and sealed all the vim and vigour in him. It could be because it was so soon after what Alfred was oh-so-cunningly dubbing 'the incident'. But, what if it was long-term? Would he even be able to handle it?

Would he get to see his Arthur again? He didn't even want to see his smile – he just wanted a sign; anything to remind him that, yes, the guy he fell in love with was _still in there_.

By now, Alfred was trying and failing to restrain sobbing into his hands. He had shown face, he had acted like he was strong all through watching Arthur interact, and he maintained his stability – he did what he needed to do. Now it was just him, alone, with nothing to stop the floodgates from becoming spread wide open. There was nothing he could have done.

Sometimes, being in pain was lesser than the hurt you receive when you watch it happen, uselessly, by the sidelines.

* * *

As Matthew lowered his phone down, he felt bluish-violet eyes upon him, observing his every movement. He twisted his neck to look back at the other person, smiling apologetically. "I'm really sorry about that." He told him. "I'm going to have to go."

"Oh? What happened?" Shifting up from his love-seat, the French nation slid forwards in interest. His beard was freshly trimmed, stray eyebrow hairs plucked, locks woven and waxy while his skin was effeminately powdered and a confusingly nice blend between casually peach skinned and somewhat sun kissed. His smile was typical, with non-chapped lips.

In short, Francis looked good.

Very good for someone who had kidnapped, injured and raped a man not even a day before.

"Apparently Arthur got into some kind of accident. He's hurt, and Alfred is having a real stress about it. You know how he is. Such a kid…" Matthew sighed, stuffing his phone into his pocket. The Canadian turned away again as he went to fetch his shoes from nearby the door of Francis's apartment, so he completely missed the way the other man's eyes lit up intently. "God knows why he hasn't taken Arthur to a hospital."

"_Angleterre_ is hurt? _Sacre bleu_. I certainly hope he is, or will be, well." Francis said with confidence, and Matthew briefly wondered why it sounded like that sentence was rehearsed. He guessed that the Frenchman and Arthur had had their ups and downs, and moments were they just wanted to kill each other. He thought nothing of it. As Francis followed him into the hallway, hands in his pockets, he noticed that his previous caretaker was scowling – the exact expression he wore when he was thinking furiously. "And you are breaking your visit with me to go see him?"

"Afraid I kinda have to. Alfred's in bits. Someone's got to give him a hand." His brother said, silent complaint clear in his voice. But he did not have a choice – well, he _did_, but he was not giving himself the option. He loved his brother. He needed to be there for him. Matthew shrugged on his coat and started fastened it all up. In his haste, he did not think to stop Francis when paternal instincts set in and the Frenchman was casually buttoning the coat all of the way.

"And who is going to give _you_ a hand?" Francis asked him, finishing up his coat. He then moved to collect his own, and answered before Matthew could even think to object. "Your brother is a burden on you like Arthur is a burden on him. Also, I do not take kindly to the fact that your little visit is getting cut short. It is therefore in my, and your, personal interest if I come with you too."

"Francis… you don't have to…" Matthew muttered in a quiet voice, self-blameworthiness hitting him inevitably, like it usually did. Even the young Canadian had subtle childlike tendencies. Francis merely chuckled at him and ruffled his hair, much to Matthew's chagrin.

"I want to come and take care of you. Arthur and Alfred too." He told him solidly, not taking no for an answer. Francis then completed readying himself and opened the door for his younger companion. "Lead the way."

"Thanks, Francis." Matthew smiled jovially as he exited; absolutely _sure_ that Alfred, and Arthur, would love the extra pair of useful hands.

Behind him, the Frenchman smirked. He was amazed, actually, that Arthur had been discovered so quickly. Still, if it was help that Alfred needed; it was help that he was going to get. Arthur would be _so_ pleased.

He could not _wait_ to see him again.

* * *

**And so the tension rises.**


	5. Abandoned, Brainwashed, Exploited

**On the subject of England's behaviour, I want to make sure that everyone understands that cold, distant behaviour like this can be very normal with rape cases. If he seems oddly out of character, there is a precise reason for it. Everything I've wrote is thought about and calculated.**

**There are going to be a lot of hints in this chapter (indeed, all of the chapters) that you very much need to pay stern attention to. Every little mention could mean something further down in the story. This is how it always goes, with my fics.**

* * *

Chapter Five: Abandoned, Brainwashed, Exploited

* * *

Since the Englishman's wrists were still hurting, Alfred had taken it upon himself to feed Arthur while he recovered. The loaded fork was still hanging in the air, food getting colder by the second, as he watched the other man sit there with his mouth sealed shut in protest.

"Not hungry," Arthur replied solidly and then flinched, as if he was about to lift his hand to bat Alfred's fork away but lost the willpower to - or the pain stopped him from moving an inch.

Alfred glanced down at the heavily bandaged hands, stomach lurching slightly when he remembered how he caught Arthur after his bath with his nails digging into his skin and scratching those wrists of his as if he wanted to claw off the already chaffed skin. He supposed he could understand - it was a reminder of whatever had happened - but to go that far for some simple rope burns was extortionate.

"Yeah, says you who probably hasn't eaten in, like, three days or somethin'!" Alfred argued back at him, waving the fork near Arthur's lips to try encouraging him. He had made one of Arthur's favourite dishes - Shepherd's pie - for crying out loud! Usually he would wolf this stuff down. "Look, Artie, I know you went through something rough, but you need to eat. I won't forgive myself if you waste away into some little stick insect! C'mon, just take three or four bites. I'll stop pestering you then."

"I said 'no', Alfred," Arthur mumbled in repetition. Alfred shook his head, certainly not conceding to that. Did Arthur think he could get away with starving himself in grief when he was around? Damn it, he had finished his own portion already, and Arthur had not taken a single bite.

"Like hell are you gettin' away with that!" The American stressed at the older Brit, slamming the fork back down onto Arthur's thoroughly neglected plate. He was worried, actually, that if he forced Arthur to eat then the Brit might end up throwing it all up behind his back. It was risky, but he needed Arthur to swallow and keep it in. "Let's go, space cadet. You can survive having one or two munches of food in y-"

Alfred looked up like a deer in headlights when the doorbell rang. Arthur, who was already partially motionless in refusal to react to Alfred's prompts, froze completely; moss green eyes lighting up and staring at Alfred as if in betrayal. A small part of Alfred knew that the other blond was probably right. He should not realistically be advertised to the public, especially other nations, but in Alfred's desperation it could not be helped.

He was doing this for him, after all. He needed this.

"Be right back, sweetie." Alfred said, winking at Arthur charismatically as he rose to his feet. A hand laid on top of Arthur's reassuringly, causing them to look at each other in the eyes, and the American sneakily directed his hand to lay atop the metal fork. Nodding intently, Alfred let go and headed to the door.

* * *

"Alfred!" Matthew called as he swallowed his brother in a large, engulfing hug. Burying his head in Alfred's shoulder, the older brother finally gave Alfred the reassurance he had so despondently needed.

"Mattie, oh my God, I'm so glad you're here." He breathed, before chuckling awkwardly as if it was an attempt to regain strength that he had lost. The Canadian, when he remembered him, was the most comforting person in the world. Kind words, enthusiasm for recovery, hugs a-plenty; Matthew was everything he needed right now.

A cough behind them and their fraternal embrace made Alfred look up and grin at Matthew's accompaniment.

"Hey Francis," He greeted, giving a slight wave of the fingers to acknowledge his presence. It paled in comparison to how Alfred usually was; big smiles and overjoyed bear hugs. As Matthew privately noted, whatever had happened caused a big toll on the American. Just as he feared.

"Mon cher, you look simply dreadful." Francis commented, nudging Matthew slightly out of the way so that he could give the American a short embrace as well - like they were long time friends rather than on and off allies. He glanced inside of the house over Alfred's shoulder, as if looking for something. "Where is Angleterre, mon ami?"

Alfred barked a forced laugh. He shook his head and pulled out of the Frenchman's grip. "Figures. The Brit gets hurt and the French guy wants to see the damage, huh? I thought you guys were supposed to be better now."

"Better, yes. In government only, I do fear." Francis said in a so-so manner, waving his hand dismissively. "Although as of now, I am genuinely concerned for our Arthur's well-being."

"...Yeah, 'kay, he's inside." Alfred conceded with a sigh. Stepping back inside, he spread the door wide enough to be inviting and ushered them into his home. Inside, the atmosphere was tense and eerily quiet. Both of the North American's held their breaths. "Just in—Just in here."

Alfred walked through to the living room, where he had been trying to coax Arthur into eating in more comfort than he would find on his rigid dining room chairs. It absolutely had not worked at all, though he guessed Arthur was not in quite as much pain. That was a plus. The Englishman himself had been just as despondent and distant as before, only slightly fresher with the tell-tale smell of a newly cleaned body clinging to him. Fragrant a man as ever - Arthur always found a way to be unique and alluring to him, even in the worse of circumstances.

The silence he was greeted with shocked him. Arthur was nowhere in the room; silverware (or cutlery, mind) abandoned over the top of his otherwise untouched plate of food, sofa cushions slightly dishevelled as if the Brit had fled it in a hurry. Alfred looked on in disbelief. How could Arthur have moved so quickly? His hips were of questionable condition, and he could barely hold himself upright properly. The idea of him having crawled or dragged himself away came to mind, and the thought scared him. Even if he was capable of doing such a thing... then... _why_?

It was Francis's awkward cough that made him remember he had company and realise that he had been standing with a slack expression, jaw half-dropped and entirely gobsmacked. Alfred turned to the others and gave a haphazard grin, casually scratching the back of his head. "Y-Yeaah... I'll be right back, okay? You guys wait right here!"

With that, Alfred promptly took off - almost running inside his house as he when off into one of the connecting rooms, intent on finding the whereabouts of the injured man. Nobody suddenly disappeared like Arthur did. High on heck; where was he?

* * *

"Arthur?" The frantic American's voice called, desperate to find the other man. It was not even Arthur's home, and he had managed to hide himself so well. He did not understand this at all; he had looked through most of the rooms, both upstairs and downstairs, along with every dark corner. Hell, he was even beginning to check the larger cupboards in case he had stowed inside. God knows why. He did not have a clue for what Arthur was doing at all.

Finally, when he was about to lose hope and return back to Matthew and Francis, Alfred saw movement in the backyard ('Garden', as Arthur liked to say) that piqued his attention. He left the pantry he was checking - briefly internally panicking over how low the supplies were - and rushed outside, realising that the door had been unlocked. The key that was attached to a chain on the door frame had been knocked out of its holding bracket, now swinging around with tattle-tales of recent use.

Alfred's yard, garden, whatever, was a beautiful little accomplishment of land. It was roughly half the size of regular yards back in the US of A - more long-ways and narrow than overbearingly wide and short - but it was prim, sweet and proper. Since he usually was at home rather than spending his time in Europe, he had given Arthur the keys to it a long while back so he could come by and do some gardening whenever the mood came - and, God, with the work the Brit had done, the mood certainly did come too.

He could not possibly name all of the flowers attached to just one of his freshly painted light brown fences, apart from the absolute obvious. Alfred remembered when he was little that Arthur would sit him down and talk to him about every flower that they crossed on their past venture across his lands while he was still childish and colonised. Arthur seemed to know everything to him; the names of individual plant species, what medicines they were used for, what the flowers meant. It was an inward but otherwise unspoken passion of the Brit's. He used to explain to him about what each meant to him on a personal level as well. When Arthur communicated with him about why the Tudor rose was his national flower, above all the other species that decorated the British Isles with impenetrable beauty, the American was moved so much that he adopted the same type as his own.

Past memories... they were always so sweet, so quaint back then. Weren't they, Arthur?

Apart from the colourful mantle shrouding the majority of his garden, there was fresh green grass stretching all the way until almost the end; blades so short that it was obvious that Arthur had been around just before he came back to Europe. Then, right there at the end, there were two cherry blossom trees cascading shadows over the bottom of his garden which resided above a small, man-made stream that he suspected Arthur had dug out himself; ripples of rocks stacked one atop the other to create a fountain of sorts, water collected at the base of his stream and no doubt pumped back up to the top. It was always soothing to listen to that water trickle whenever he had a problem, and he wondered if privately, Arthur did the same.

He was not surprised, now that he considered it, to see Arthur stowed away at the end of his garden - though it was the demeanour that broke his heart the most. The cherry blossom trees were weeping orange and crumpled leaves, as if they were dying - petals having long gone since the early Spring. Since the season was Fall, or Autumn to Arthur's mind, he knew they were just shedding their useless parts in readiness for the cold tang of Winter, but it still hit him. Especially when he looked upon Arthur. Arthur, who was hunched over and kneeling; shuddering with his head in his hands.

For but a second, Alfred glanced back at the rest of the house, feeling like he was leaving Matthew and Francis too long alone. But that matter less to him. If it came to Arthur, they could wait. Slowly, he approached, heartstrings tugging as he noticed that the shudders were more like sobs than anything else. Sobs that raked his whole body. He did not even seem to realise that he was coming till a hand rested on his shoulder, making the smaller man flinch and look up with beautifully green eyes - dead green eyes - wide as dinner plates. His face was blotchy with tears.

That struck him.

Arthur did not cry often. Three times in the whole of their history together had Alfred seen the Briton cry before, and this was now the fourth. Two of those were from the last two days. It only occurred to him now that there could be a possibility that Arthur, his loving, tender Arthur, might be too lost to recover.

* * *

_"I-I should have...nn—known...!" He bawled, rubbing the shedding tears away with the back of his hand. The smaller bodied man leant into the warm, encompassing arms; trembling too much to hold himself standing any longer. Soft murmurs and apologies were breathed against his wet cheeks, and lips touched the crown of his head so delicately that he, despite everything, felt like royalty._

_"...Shh, Arthur. I know. I know... we could all see it happening." The handsome, American-accented voice chimed, as his hands ran through the mane of dirty blond hair, lovingly and comfortingly. "I-If I had known he would... oh, Arthur. I would have told you. I would have saved you from getting hurt like this."_

_"I-I lo-loved him, Alfred. I love him...! I-I still do…"_

* * *

"Francis, umm… I don't think my brother will like it much if you wander around his house." Matthew spoke tentatively as Francis left the living room, peering up the staircase.

"Nonsense, Matthew. I am sure he will want as much help as he can get to find Arthur. Though I am surprised; I thought he was in bad condition – it must take a lot of willpower for him to crawl away from us!" Francis laughed. "It's as if he is trying to escape, non?"

"Er, yeah, I don't think that's true." The Canadian said point blank. He let out a long, considering mumble before he sighed and conceded, leaving Francis to do what he wished. "Fine, you go look upstairs. But I swear Al's already checked up there! I'm staying right here, alright? Where Alfred _told_ us to be… you're going to ignore me again aren't y—Oh come on, let me finish complaining at least…!"

By the time that Matthew looked up again, Francis had already disappeared up the stairs and beyond the landing. Rolling his eyes pitifully, he retired back into the living room like a good brother, muttering something about 'one day' and 'miss me'.

While on the first floor up, Francis pushed open a few of the doors to examine the contents; eyes searching vigorously. He entered Alfred's bedroom, spinning around to take in the scenery. A walk-in cupboard, en-suite, modern styled bed, boastful American flag hung up on display – generally not very swagger and more typical of a lad of Alfred's physical age. Comic books were scattered over the top of the chest of drawers and a television on the desk was hooked up to an Xbox. Trust the American to play games in bed.

Humming to himself, Francis moved towards the chest of drawers and opened each drawer in turn. Underwear, socks, vest-tops, small items of clothing; he very almost became disinterested in it until he heard a none-too-familiar rolling and a clunk. It sounded metallic. He glanced at the doorway to check for certain that nobody was there, before pushing a few articles of clothing out of the way.

What he saw made his eyes light up. Slowly, a dark smile reached his lips, stretching them crookedly. "…My, my, _Alfred_. Surely you should know that this is breaking your dear Arthur's laws. What a curious man you are…"

* * *

"…Hey," Alfred said in the most charming, calmed manner that he could, trying to bring the poor Brit out of his shell a little. He gently rubbed the man's back, hoping the gesture would help him. Though he noted, with horror, that Arthur's eyes were even more unseeing than before – like the person who owned them had just discovered one further loss. "Arthur, is everything okay?"

"…T-They… they're not talking to me," Arthur breathed huskily, voice still broken like knifes were in his throat and slashing his vocal chords. The Briton shuddered, looking over at the tumbling waterfall of the stream and the dying leaves falling into the water pooling below instead of him. His eyes flickered as if searching for something. "When I need them the very most, they're n-not talking to me."

"Who, Arthur?" Alfred asked, looking down at the smaller man with concern. He twisted slightly to rummage in his pocket to see if he had any tissues anywhere. "Who's not talking to you?"

Arthur was noticeably silent, as if he was keeping the identity a secret in his own interests; though Alfred, inwardly, already knew who – or what – he was referring to. It was not like Arthur had never told him stories about the fairies he knew before, members of the seelie and unseelie courts. They were like his support system to bring him up when he was down the most. Honestly, in Alfred's opinion, he thought that they were something his mind created – an illusion from when Arthur was a child, just to stop him from being all alone.

"…Listen, Arthur. We've got to go back inside," Alfred murmured, reaching out to lightly stroke the back of Arthur's head, rugged dirty blond hair getting caught in his fingers; knotted by the gentle breeze taking over the yard and beyond. "We've got visitors."

"I know." Arthur whispered quietly. While his voice was animated, the rest of his body looked totally lifeless apart from the unsteady rise and fall of his chest. The nation suddenly shivered, enough for Alfred to flinch in surprise, and huddled his arms around himself. Something in him must have snapped. "I know, I know, _I KNOW_!"

"W-Woah, woah, woah!" Alfred called, holding his hands up defensively against the Briton now sobbing even harder and shaking so badly that the American was afraid to touch him in case he lashed out. Was this really worth the fuss for a few missing fairies? He could not understand it at all. "Arthur, _chill_, dude. _Chill_! No need to shout—_Damn_, it's just a few fireflies that are too cowardly to show their faces! They'll pop up again. There's no point having a fit about it—Come _on_, Matthew and Francis are waiting for us!"

"_You don't understand_!" Arthur scathed, spinning around and glaring at the American with more intensity in his eyes than Alfred had ever remembered seeing. He looked vulnerable, so easily breakable – like a little sculpture made out of glass – yet the face he showed looked like he could kill if he wanted to. Something negative - upset, shock, or _fear_ – was bubbling inside of him. "You'll never understand, will you? N-Never! Do you hear me? _Never_!"

"Arthur! God's sakes, man. _Listen to yourself_!" Alfred continued, fighting in the face of danger. Even he could tell it was probably a bad idea to snap back against a possibly critically broken person; but he was not going to stand for this. He was going to try all he could to get it into Arthur's head that this was _not_ the right behaviour. All he was trying to do was to help! "It's our _friends_, Arthur! You can't just sit here lamenting over how some flies have not turned up. Come on, you're coming inside with me!"

"No! I won't!" Arthur replied back, less snappishly this time. It was with relief that Alfred noticed Arthur was beginning to be more submissive again – ferocity gone now from his eyes. "I-I can't… no-not when…"

"When your hips are messed up? Yeah, I know… I'll bring you in, sweet stuff." Alfred said in a much calmer voice of his own, wandering over to the Briton and extending his arms as if expecting Arthur to simply _fall into them_. Arthur stared questioningly, still shivering. Alfred saw him looking back to the house, pupils thinned with some sort of emotion that he just could not tell, before looking up directly at him. "What's up, doll?"

"…N-nothing." Arthur murmured almost silently, a fresh breath on the wind. Whatever Alfred spotted that time on his face wiped away. It was like Arthur was afraid of something, then realised it was hopeless. He opened his mouth to speak again but closed it almost immediately afterwards; deciding against speech. Alfred had a feeling that Arthur wanted to tell him something, but thought twice.

"Come on, you." Alfred added with a nurturing smile, staying strong for the Brit's benefit – as well, partially, for his own. He promptly swooped over, scooping Arthur up into his arms, bridal style, and shuffling up, up, up onto his feet. "I'll get you a tissue on the way, okay?"

* * *

"So, uh, where's the French loser?" Alfred asked Matthew as he, with Arthur still collected in his arms, entered the living room and glanced around concernedly. The Canadian shrugged. Francis had taken a lot longer than he had expected him to.

"Dunno… he said he was going to check upstairs. I don't think he trusted your detective skills, though I guess he was wrong," came the reply, and the other bespectacled nation gestured loosely at Arthur. "You found him, eh?"

"Sure did. You were just checkin' out the flowers, weren't-cha, Arthur?" Alfred chirruped gladly; smiling down at the nation bundled up in his arms. His eyes were still relatively blotchy and red, but he knew that his brother could read the atmosphere well enough to tell that asking about it was likely to be a bad idea. The Englishman merely stared emotionlessly back. "…A-Alright, let's put you down, mister!"

As Arthur was put down, Matthew watched Alfred's expression closely. He knew his brother's personality probably better than anyone else, and what he saw shocked him. It was the same sort of face that he showed whenever he talked about 911 and the deaths that were caused back then. A melancholic smile on his face in order to reassure those that were hurt, an air of understanding around him, yet beneath all that there was a certain anger hidden inside – the lining of Alfred's speech was backed up with a slight hopelessness that Matthew would know anywhere. Like Alfred was judging, placing the blame on _something_ – even if he did not know who it was.

"I think I'll let you two chat for a minute!" Alfred automatically volunteered. Seeing him eye to eye, Matthew finally noticed how tired his brother looked. He was utterly worn out – overexerting himself. He needed a rest; that much was clear as day. "I-I've gotta go find Francis… be right back, mmkay?"

Arthur looked up at Alfred, silent but wounded expression on those usually tense features. Like a rabbit that had just been shot. The American tried to ignore it as he left, bounding up the stairs.

"So… eeh." Matthew begun, completely at a loss for words. Here was Alfred and Arthur, one internally livid but trying to put on a strong face, and the other – well, even to Matthew's eyes, it looked like Arthur had simply given in. Their eyes only met for a small moment, and then Arthur was looking away again, curling in on himself. Alfred was right – the extent of what happened was horrid. Nobody would miss the bandages wrapping up his hands and arms. Whoever knew what was underneath? "…Um. Arthur, how are you dealing? I heard about the accident…"

"Why are you here?" Arthur asked coldly; enough to bring a momentary shiver down his spine. He shot down his concern and replaced it purely with scepticism.

"W-What… well, um. Alfred called me and said that he needed a hand. I'm sure that he—"

"I don't need you here, Matthew." Arthur disclosed snappishly, taking Matthew by surprise again. He was used to his speech being constantly interrupted – but not like this. Not so deliberately.

"Y-Yes, but I…" The Canadian stammered, trying to recover from the initial shock of being talked to in such a concluding manner. "…You need to recover, and having more than one helper will do you good, eh! A-And I'm here for Alfred just as much as you…"

"You should not have come." Arthur scathed, shrinking back on the sofa. He glanced off elsewhere, eyes trailing around unseeingly in the air as if searching for something.

"With all due respect, _Arthur_—My brother is dealing worse with this than you might think. He's a ray of sunshine in the dark, our Al. Sacrifices his own feelings in need of helping fix another's." Matthew explained to him, shuffling till he was standing strong and proud for his cause against his previous caretaker. "You and he are totally disregarding the fact that he's getting _miserable_ like this. He cares about you a _lot_, Arthur. And as his sibling, I care a lot about him."

He suddenly became very aware of luminous green eyes bearing up at him, view fixated and even potentially ghostly. The Englishman did not move a muscle, other than a few natural spasms in his fingertips.

"…L-Look… I'm, eh, I'm going to go see where Alfred and Francis have been!" The shyer bespectacled nation offered, awkwardly tittering as he inched towards the door. The way that Arthur's irises were following him honestly _frightened_ him. It was like how portrait paintings often look like they are watching you from whichever angle you stand. It was haunting. "T-Talk to you in a second, okay!"

He had never known so much guilt after he bailed, exiting the living room and almost running upstairs to find the others – heart pumping drastically. The usually warm-hearted albeit loudmouthed Brit was nothing like himself; quiet, and looking like he could slaughter with intent alone. Cold, and surrounded by a constant air of distrust.

* * *

"…So…" A cough sounded and the three blonds stood awkwardly in their places. When Matthew had found the others, they were back inside of the kitchen – scrutinising the contents of Alfred's pantry. Nothing more than a few cans of food, pretty much empty. It would barely last Alfred and Arthur a week, and he and Francis were not going to stay much longer than they had to. Not when Arthur was being cold as he was, and Alfred was seeming stable enough.

"I guess the only course of action we can do is to go out and get some more. Simple, ain't it?" Alfred offered, hands on his hips and a misplaced smile resting on his face. "The two o'you can go get stuff, can't cha?"

"It's your house, Alfred. You may eat in vast volumes but you are hilariously picky as well." Francis pointed out. The American refused to eat a lot of food, against popular belief, especially when he was here in England. It was like he trusted the food no where near as far as he could throw it; as if it all was as bad as Arthur's cooking. He still avoided any aisle in a supermarket with marmite on it. Who knew what Alfred would eat on this continent? "It would be troublesome if we brought the wrong thing."

"Yeah, but… what about Arth—" Alfred tried to interject, looking partially disappointed. This is where Matthew took the opportunity to chime in.

"You should come out of the house for a little while, Alfred. Much as you would love to put on a strong face, there's no point in you trying to take care of Arthur when you're unprepared and miserable. Just have a quick break and re-organise yourself, okay?" Matthew said, giving a belittling but empathetic smile at his brother; a hand resting on his arm. Alfred frowned, letting his all-cheery façade temporarily break, before he nodded.

"…O-Okay. Just this once. But we can't all go. Who's stayin' behind?" He asked, glancing up at his brother questioningly. The Canadian shook his head and indicated to Francis.

"I'm coming with you, Al. I think we should… I dunno… talk about this." The other bespectacled blond said calmly, still casually rubbing the other's arm. He was highly aware that Francis was watching them carefully, but thought nothing of it. "I'm sure Francis can take care of Arthur for a little while."

Alfred did not look all too happy about that, and looked Francis up and down for a moment. Sighing, the Frenchman rolled his eyes and crossed his arms, as if the inspection was such a hassle to take. "_Alfred_, I think you know that I am perfectly capable of handling a moody Englishman – I have several times in my life, I can do it again. Now get yourself organised and go, comprendre?"

"…But what about you're history…" Alfred started, disappointed and worried tone in his voice.

"_Go_," Francis ushered, sticking his hands forwards and nudging Alfred towards the living room and to where Arthur was curled up in wait. "Tell him you'll be back soon, and go out to talk to your brother, why don't you?"

"But—!"

"No buts, Ameriqué! If your brother expects you to speak to him then you two shall! It is for your own benefit, so go on and go out – I will take care of our petit lapin here, so take your time. In fact, go have a meal, relax, and work the tension out of these shoulders! Mon _dieu_!" Francis complained, pushing him towards the entrance for the living room while Matthew walked behind, nodding in agreement.

"It'll just be a few hours, Al. It'll be good for you, and Francis is right. You are horribly tense, so I'm going to remedy that. Got it, eh?" Matthew chirruped, giving a stronger smile now. Finally, Alfred slumped his shoulders and sighed heftily; taking a moment to adjust the position of his glasses on the bridge of his nose.

"…Fine. I'll come out with you. But I'm not tense or anythin'! This is how heroes roll, damned be it. I'm only going to stop you worryin', got that?" Alfred mumbled under his breath, still trying to convince the other two that he would rather be here. It was correct in some degree, but in reality Alfred would rather be anywhere else. Anywhere where he could fool himself into not remembering that there was a broken Englishman – the broken man he loved – lying in wait at home. "A'ight… let's get this over with."

* * *

Arthur knew that something odd was going on when all three of his fellow blonds piled into the living room with their eyes fixated on him, as if he was a rapid cat that they were going to attempt to capture; afraid of any movement of his. He stared back, looking up at Alfred in particular. Those large forest green orbs of his refused to stray anywhere near the left and to the back, where _he_ was standing. But he could still detect that hawk-like stare through the apex of his eye. Matthew and Alfred both did not see it, since they were in front… _but the way he was looking at him_.

Why was he here? Why did Alfred invite him over? _Did_ he invite him over in the first place? It was because Matthew was here, wasn't it? But why did Alfred bring anyone around anyway? It would have been better if it was just them. If only Alfred was the one that saw him like this. What if the world already knew? Already knew that he was damaged goods, injured, dirty, _fucked_? He could not handle it. The accusing eyes. The knowledgeable looks. How could he? How could he—How _could he_…?

"Hey, Arthur… we're um." Alfred started, and Arthur narrowed his glance slightly in reaction. The unsteadiness of his voice scared him. Instantly he was beginning to mistrust, ironically accusing the other as well. Was he going to leave him? Pass him on to his brother like pass-the-parcel? Reject him, have nothing more to do with him, _leave him and scrap him off like dirt on his shoe_. How dare he do this to him? How, how, _how_?

"We're just going to go out and get more food for us in the week, okay? So I can hang back and take care for you as much as I can. Is that alright? It'll be just for t'day. Got it?" Alfred cooed quietly, reaching out and stroking a few strands of ruffled blond hair out of the Englishman's eyes while he simultaneously knelt in front of him on the sofa. He visibly relaxed in relief.

"…You're… leaving me alone?" Arthur asked him, blinking and noting as Alfred flinched slightly as if wounded by his words. _Good_. _You made me feel guilty, regret, doubt_. He swallowed and shook the thought out of his head, squeezing his eyes closed and taking a big breath; fingertips twitching slightly.

"No. No, no. I wouldn't leave you alone, baby doll." Alfred said in a nurturing tone, smiling weakly for his sake. "Mattie and I are gonna go out, and I'll leave you in Francis's capable hands – okay?"

British eyes flew open again, and he knew that they went so wide and scared that it disarmed the North American nations by the way Matthew inched backwards and Alfred looked even more internally injured than before. The American must have noticed that his breathing patterns changed – hyperventilating now, sucking breath after breath faster and faster as if building for a climax – because he shushed him and gently rubbed his chest.

"It's fine, Arthur—I won't be gone for long. I promise you, 'kay? I promise." Alfred mumbled to him, and Arthur remembered wondering why the Hell he did not question his reaction. Maybe he knew that he depended on him and wanted to get away from him, but felt too guilty. Yes, that must be it. He would leave him in a heartbeat if he could, wouldn't he?

Francis and him alone. Dear Lord, Francis being with him, _alone_. In Alfred's house. What if he… what if he did it again? What if he raped him again? Oh, oh no. Francis was going to… he was going to get hurt again. No, _no, no_.

But he remembered what Francis had told him after… _then_. Tell Alfred and he dies. Tell Alfred and he would kill him, and then come back and fuck him all over again. Over and over. Until he could barely think any more. Until everything whittled away into dust and all he could remember is those wide, dead cerulean blue eyes.

_No, no, no_.

"W-What about Matthew?" He asked quickly.

"He's comin' with me. Some 'Bro-time'. You'll be fine with Francis, I know you will." Alfred told him. _You don't know anything. You don't know!_

"I want Matth—" Arthur tried again.

"Angleterre, I do not like it any more than you do." Francis said behind the other two, and Arthur felt like a little part of him inside _died_. Just like Alfred might. Just like the man that he loved might. Fuck, fuck, what was he going to do. He struggled to control his breathing, doing everything he could to try act like nothing was wrong. The looks on Alfred and Matthew's faces were not suspicious, but just worried.

_Damn it, he's right behind you. Turn around. Turn around! It's him, it's him. He was the one that did this. Him! Stop him, Alfred, stop him. I don't want to be alone with him. Let this stop, let it stop, stop, stop, stop!_

Then a small sight, a glint, made him stop abruptly and feel honestly physically sick. He stared beyond the American and the Canadian, looking directly at Francis while the foolish brothers continued to watch him. His mouth hung slightly ajar, _stunned_.

Francis had pulled out the handle of a gun from his pocket; just enough so that Arthur could see the trigger – and the way that Francis's finger was flirting with it, stroking the metal, holding onto it almost lovingly as he smiled at him with such _intent_. Alfred and Matthew had no idea. They had no clue that Francis had a _fucking gun_. Where did he get it from? How did he get it past customs? …Was it… _Alfred_'s?

"Let Alfred and Matthew go, and they will get back in a few hours. Surely you may survive that, mon cher. And they will too." Francis said, clutching the butt of the gun even tighter. Arthur's heart leapt dangerously, and he shook, knowing that although there was no emphasis on the last part of Francis's words, it was _filled_ with intent. Distraught, destroying _intent_.

"…O-Okay." He found himself saying, almost soullessly. What else could he do? All Francis had to do was cock the gun and angle it at Alfred's head, and it would be all over. He could not take this. The guilt would be too much, sadness be too fulfilled. He could take anything but _that_. Anything but his Alfred dying. Anything, anything, _anything_. Even _him_. "F-Fine. But hurry back."

"I will, Arthur." Alfred smiled, glad to have consent. _You really, really have no idea_. Arthur felt like he was going to be sick, watching his face fill with relief; watching him pull away from him after hesitating. For a second, Arthur thought he would have kissed him goodbye on the cheek. He wished that he would have. He would have turned his head towards it and found his lips instead. "Take care, 'aight? Good man. Good, good… hey! Mattie! Let's go, okay?"

Arthur glanced back at Francis and saw the deep blue-violet eyes gaze back. A smile was cursing those crooked features, and Arthur felt like he was just plunged into a pool of ice; cold feeling rushing through him and goosebumps appearing on his arms. The gun had disappeared back into his pocket, and Arthur stayed silent; knowing to speak out might cost not only one, but two lives.

He remained quiet as Alfred and Matthew left, waiting till they were out of sight before he snapped and started to wheeze breaths desperately again; shuddering and trying not to cry, knowing he was going to spend the next few hours in the company of the rapist that broke him. Still, he had to do it for their lives. He _had _to.

Little did he know, there were no bullets in the gun.

* * *

**Who does not love cliffhangers?**

**Would just like to send a soft shout-out to all of the people I met at the London Expo last weekend. Like Iceglisten on Deviantart, and RobinRocks (for a second time – I still can't believe we didn't know XD). Thanks for a great time, everyone. If you went and you saw an America walking around holding a lot shorter England's hand, then that was me.**

**Love to all. Thanks for reading~!**


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